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Appletons’ 


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THE 

Fisherman of Auge. 


BY 

KATHARINE S. MACQUOID. 





NEW YORK; 

D. APPLETON & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. 


Copyright by D. Appleton & Ca, 1878. 


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APPLETONS’ NEW HANDY-VOLUME SERIES. V. 5 


THE 

FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


A STORY, 


BY 


cT 


KATHARINE S^'MACQUOID, 

AUTHOR OF “patty,” “MY STORY,” ETC, 




'’107 y 


NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

549 AND 551 BROADWAY. 

1878. 


< 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

Prologue ..... 6 

1. The Return Home . . . .16 

II. The Counsel op Captain de Gragnac . 27 

III. Desire’s Courtship . . . .35 

IV. Les Regates ..... 45 

Y. What happened the Day after . . .66 

VI. The Fisherman’s Secret . . - . 61 

VII. Marie’s First Letter . . ‘ , .72 

VIII. Convinced ..... 83 

IX. Mimi . . . . . .89 

X. At the Calvaire op St.-Pierre . . 96 

XI. On the Roof op the Abbaye . . . 108 

XII. What became of Desire . . .123 



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THE FISHEEMAH OF AUGE. 


PROLOGUE. 

A FLAT, sandy store, stretching away on the 
left as you look seaward till it blends with that 
indefinite gray tint of sea and sky that bounds all 
distant seascapes with the poetic indistinctness of 
the future — ending abruptly on the right in a nar- 
row point, which, swelling as it retreats inland, 
gradually rises in a lofty green hill, and effectually 
shuts out from sight the coast beyond. When 
this coast is seen — and this is practicable at low 
tide, for you can then make your way over the end 
of the point without so much as a wetting — it re- 
veals a succession of slightly curved bays, termi- 
nating in a chain of soft-gray mud-hills,. forever 
accumulating, and disappearing again by the ac- 
tion of the waves. 

There is nothing to distinguish the first strip of 
coast-land from the rest, except its lonely aspect 
and the curious circuitous channel, almost in the 


6 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


shape of the figure 8 — the channel by which a 
small river finds its way through some lesser gray 
hills to the sea. This river’s stony bed is always 
dry in summer-time, but the strangely-shaped 
mouth generally holds back some supply from the 
retreating waves ; and the belief among the vil- 
lagers is that, before the turn of the tide, the 
water so retained becomes purified from its briny 
flavor. 

Villagers is a too populous word for the in- 
habitants of Auge. A dozen fishermen’s cottages, 
at most, scattered widely apart, some on the sands, 
some nestling under the shelter of the mud-hills, 
a few built on the green hill-side, and almost 
smothered with an over-growth of the sea-buck- 
thorn, yellow just now with its sticky berries. 

But our chief interest is with one cottage in 
Auge, and that stood at the very mouth of the 
river, near to the little cove where all the boats 
lay snugly together, on the sand-dike to the left 
of the figure 8, which sand-dike had yet so firm 
a hold over the invasions of the waves that it was 
almost covered with coarse grass and sea-holly; 
behind the cottage a fair show of lettuce, soup- 
herbs, and potatoes grew in the sandy soil. 

A tall, handsome young fisherman, in a blue 
jersey and scarlet cap, stood in front of the cot- 
tage. 

He was talking vehemently, but it was easy to 
see that he was not angry with the quiet woman 


PROLOGUE. 7 

seated on one of the benches beneath the little 
porch. 

“There, my mother, I have told thee all,” and 
the young fisherman threw himself on the ground, 
and buried his head in Madame Leli^vre’s lap to 
hide his agitation. 

His mother bent her face over him — such a 
gentle face ! with the small straight nose, the 
timid regular mouth, and large soft brown eyes 
one sees among the women of Caen. 

Her son had been talking of love, and there 
seemed to be something in the word that made 
her sigh deeply before she spoke. “ I have seen 
that thou hadst trouble in thy heart this long time, 
my child, and often I wished to ask the cause — 
but then I said to myself, ‘ My Desire loves his 
mother, and he is good ; when he sees fit he will 
come to her to get this thorn removed.’ But I 
cannot remove it, my son. Victorine Triquet is 
a good woman, and she loves me ; but I cannot 
ask her to give thee her little Marie till thou hast 
a home to bring her to.” 

“ My mother ! ” D4sire started up, angry and 
excited, but her sweet, resigned face checked an 
imprecation half uttered. 

“ If my father will settle nothing, how can I 
make a home ? He says neither ‘ yes ’ nor ‘ no ; ’ 
he will not admit me to be partner in his gains, 
and when I ask to leave him and join Jacques 
Fayel, he makes no answer. Mother, mother ! 


8 THE FISHERM^AN OF AUGE. 

thou oughtest to help me now; but for thee, 
I had quarreled out-and-out long ago, and had a 
cabin of my own, for Jacques gains more than 
any of us.” 

The color sprang over his mother’s pale face. 
It was plain that some unusual emotion had mas- 
tered her patience, for she clasped her son’s arms 
closely with both hands, and her words came hur- 
riedly, almost with vehemence. 

“ No, D4sire ! never quarrel with thy father — 
never ! I shall not grow old ; and when I am 
gone there will be room for Marie. You will both 
want a woman to make your soup, and wash and 
mend your clothes. Only I ask myself if Marie 
Triquet will do this, or if she will not want a 
richer husband than my D6sir4.” 

‘‘ Hush, mother ! you say this too often ; and 
as for Marie, she is not rich. You know when 
her father died, his affairs took a long time to 
settle, and this has made La Veuve Triquet a 
much poorer woman than she expected to be. 
Unless Marie marries some one, she must mind 
the shop all her life ; and, I should think, it is a 
happier lot to sit in one’s own cottage, naending 
the clothes of the man one loves, than to stand all 
day behind a counter, selling cakes and tarts to 
imbeciles of children.” 

Madame Leli^vre was not convinced ; but what 
loving mother ever had the best of an argument 
against her only son ? and she ended by promising 


PROLOGUE. 


9 


to sound Madame Triquet, the next time she went 
to Caen, about Marie’s future, and, if possible, to 
hint at Desire’s attachment. 

Her son kissed her forehead with the mixture 
of tenderness and reverence he always showed 
her, and then strolled away over the sands in 
front of the cottage. They were deserted just 
now : all the inhabitants of the little fishing- vil- 
lage, except a few of the old and infirm, had gone 
out some distance along the coast, to a point where 
a Spanish vessel had been wrecked two days before. 
The young fisherman had staid at home on pur- 
pose to open his heart to his mother. She never 
left Auge, except for mass on high festivals, and 
for market-days, when he always accompanied her 
to Caen. 

He turned and looked back at her now, as she 
sat, knitting a blue worsted stocking, in front of 
the one-storied cottage, and, as some of her words 
recurred to him, he trembled to think what his 
home would be to him without his mother. 

It was only a two-roomed cabin, with a tiled 
roof covered with thatch, many-colored with 
house-leek and other parasites nestling in its crev- 
ices ; in summer-time, green with vine-leaves, 
which were already bursting from their brown 
wrappings, apparently in a hurry to greet the 
warm sunshine in which the far-stretching sands 
and glittering sea lay basking. 

Celine Lelievre sat, knitting on, till her son 


10 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE, 


was out of sight, sheltered from the sun’s blaze 
by a little wooden porch he had made for her 
years before. But his words still troubled her. 
She soon let her pins droop lower and lower, and, 
finally, laying them aside, she rested her face in 
the palm of one hand, holding her elbow steady 
with the other, while she pondered the best way 
of dealing with her quondam friend Victorine 
Triquet. 

Years ago they had been school-fellows ; every 
day had they gone to school, and come home again, 
with their arms lovingly twined round one an- 
other’s necks ; every day, at lesson-time, they had 
sat on the same bench, learned the same task, and, 
at each prize-distribution also. La Veuve Triquet, 
or, rather, Victorine Goulard, had been followed 
by the loving eyes of her friend, as she went up 
for her couronne and her books, while Celine felt 
but too thankful for her friend’s triumph, and her 
own escape from such publicity, only coming in 
herself for an “ honorable mention ” in the shape 
of an “ accessit.” But the friendship had chilled 
as the characters of the two girls developed. The 
fair-haired, blue-eyed, thoroughly Norman-faced 
Victorine, with her hearty greeting and ready 
sympathy, was cold-hearted and worldly, and told 
Celine she was throwing herself away when she 
learned that her friend was promised to Martin 
Lelievre, the fisherman of Auge. 

Other people, who knew a little about Martin 


PROLOGUE. 


11 


— no one knew much — thought, too, that such a 
charming girl as Celine was lost on the silent, 
cunning-looking, though handsome, fisherman. 
But Victorine did not care about his temper or 
his principles, she only thought of his poverty 
and of the immense sacrifice Celine would make 
in giving up Caen for a village on the sea-shore. 
One thing was certain, she would not he so foolish 
— the richest claimant would be the preferred one; 
so, when portly, middle-aged M. Triquet, the well- 
to-do pastry-cook, asked her of her mother, she 
was quite ready to say “ yes,” and to be married 
in a fortnight. She was a widow four years later, 
with one little girl ; and Marie Triquet, a pretty 
likeness of her mother, had been, ever since Ke 
left school, the adored of Desir4 Leli^vre. 

Although Auge was twelve miles distant 
from Caen, Madame Leli^vre, as has been said, 
always went in for f^te days and for any extra 
marketing, and, as she took Desire with her, 
and generally contrived to see her old friend, the 
two children were frequent playmates, and shared 
each other’s bonbons and secrets in true child’s 
fashion. 

But after Marie had made her first communion 
— that epoch in the life of a French girl — Madame 
Triquet would embrace her dear friend tenderly 
in the street, and ask eagerly for the health of 
monsieur her husband, but she would no longer 
invite the mother and son in to rest, and spend 


12 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


the time they had to spare with her before their 
return to Auge. And when at fifteen the little 
timid Marie suddenly developed into a very pretty, 
plump damsel, La Veuve discouraged any intimacy 
between the young people. 

At the grand Easter fair, where she paraded 
Marie in great state, also her own superb cap of 
'point de Bruxelles — La Veuve’s mother had worn 
a real Caennais cap, but her daughter would have 
disdained anything so pagan and countrified — 
when they met Desir6 Leli^vre, she became stone- 
blind to the youth’s respectful greeting ; he just 
managed to present his fairing to Marie, but she 
was hurried away with her thanks unspoken. 

A few chance words had been since then occa- 
sionally interchanged between the young people, 
and Marie had smiled so sweetly and blushed so 
timidly that Desire had felt happy again, con- 
vinced that as yet he had no rival in the field. 
All this he had confessed to his mother, but he 
ended by saying that she must not delay in asking 
Marie as a wife for him, or he felt sure he would 
lose her. 

Madame Lelidvre was quiet and timid, but she 
was quick-witted, and seldom took long to find 
her way out of a difficulty. ISTow, the longer she 
thought, the more perplexed she grew. 

“ If it only had been Marie,” she said, and she 
went on thinking. Presently, with the confusion 
of her ideas, came a strange sharp pain in her 


PROLOGUE. 


13 


head, which almost made her cry out in agony. 
She rose abruptly, and turned into the cottage. 

Desir4 came in at the usual hour for his mid- 
day meal ; the last piece of wood he had thrown 
in the open fireplace was smouldering — all but 
extinguished ; there had been no attempt made 
to rekindle a flame. He looked at the table ; it 
was just as it had been when he left the cottage ; 
the soup-pot stood on the cold part of the hearth. 

What had happened? He hastened into the 
inner room ; his mother lay on her bed, pale, but 
not insensible, although she took no notice of his 
entrance ; her hands were catching at her dress, 
at her bed-coverings, as if for refuge from her 
sufferings ; and, to his horror. Desire found that 
she was speechless. 

He went to summon aid, but there was no one 
left in Auge who could be sent to Caen for a doc- 
tor, and he did not dare to leave her himself. The 
pain soon became an agony too terrible to witness, 
and he could do nothing to relieve it. After a 
while it seemed suddenly to cease, she lay quite 
still, and Desir6 thought she slept ; but, long be- 
fore his father’s return in the evening, he knew 
that his mother would never wake again. 

His visions of love and Marie seemed forever 
blotted out. He loved his mother with that filial 
passion only found in men ; he would scarcely 
yield her up for the last rites to be performed, 
and, when Jacques Fay el came to look for him. 


14 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


the day after the funeral, he found Desire lying 
on the floor beside the bed where she had lain, in 
dumb, tearless despair. 

Desire roused from this state by degrees, but 
his father’s apparent indifference stirred his dis- 
contented feelings toward him to active rebellion ; 
it became impossible to him to lead the quiet, un- 
eventful life of that little fishing-village without 
her who had made home so happy. 

The Italian war was just then public talk. A 
section of the 75th regiment of the line was quar- 
tered in Caen, and one evening Desire presented 
himself before the captain. Monsieur de Gragnac, 
to be enrolled. 

The matter was soon settled — for broad-shoul- 
dered young fellows like Desire were welcome — 
and, as it was war-time, he took service for two 
years only. Perhaps a longer period would not 
have suited Desire ; for, though he missed his 
mother more and more, and shrank from the 
strange, sneering callousness with which his father 
treated her loss, he had not forgotten Marie Tri- 
quet, and he still cherished hopes about her, much 
as he shrank from present happiness. 

Four months before, on the ever-memorable 1st 
of January, 1859, words had been spoken at the 
Tuileries which had made war a possible and 
prominent idea in the minds of all men. 

The French army had been daily adding to its 
numbers ; the opening of the campaign was now 


THE RETURN HOME. 


15 


eagerly looked for; glory, honors, riches, were 
prophesied to those who swelled- the ranks ; but 
to Desire Leli^vre the stirring change of life and 
scene offered sufficient temptation as a refuge 
from the bitterness of his first great sorrow. 

In a week’s time the regiment was in Paris, and 
before long it was on its way to Italy. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE RETURN HOME. 

In less than two months Montebello, Magenta, 
Melegnano, Solferino, had all been fought. Eu- 
rope was astonished by the news of an armis- 
tice. The Italian campaign was over ; and on the 
14th of August, the eve of the FUe de V Empereur, 
the victorious troops reentered Paris in triumph. 

Desire accompanied his regiment to the camp 
at Chalons, and thence to other quarters ; but in 
the summer of the following year the battalion 
to which he belonged was ordered to Normandy, 
and one bright day in July he found himself again 
in Caen. 

He had asked for a few weeks’ leave, and quit- 
ting the troops at the caserne on the outskirts of 
the town, he took his way through the well-known 
streets toward St. -Pierre, the tapering spire of 
which greeted him already. 


16 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


The streets were quieter than usual, for all the 
population had betaken itself to the suburb of 
Vaucelles to see the entry of the troops. 

The cool shadow cast by the tall, gray-stone 
houses refreshed Desir4 after the march along the 
hot, dusty high-road. How delicious to the eye 
was the fresh verdure of the vine-leaves clinging 
to the quaintly-sculptured dormers, or framing, in 
an open window, its sill, gay with scarlet flowers ! 
Still more exquisite to the tired traveler were the 
vistas of luxuriant gardens, rich in flowering 
shrubs, and trellised creeping plants, forming bow- 
ers of verdure, which suddenly and unexpectedly 
disclosed themselves through small iron gratings 
or low-browed, stone doorways, in what might 
have seemed the busiest and most work-a-day part 
of the thoroughfare. 

Every well-known object made the young sol- 
dier’s heart beat ; and as he approached the Place 
Saint-Pierre, the exquisite proportions of the lofty 
spire, rising in its midst, became blurred by the 
mist that rose in his eyes when he remembered 
how often he and his mother had gazed up at it 
together, and had decided that it must have been 
sent from heaven just as it now appeared ; for no 
human architect could have planned so wondrous 
a work. But Desire had traveled since then, and 
had seen greater marvels than even the perfect 
fllche of St.-Pierre. 

He was roused from the past to the present. 


THE RETURN HOME. 


17 


A comely, well-dressed woman, with a pretty, 
blushing girl beside her, both of them evidently 
returning from Yaucelles, were standing close to 
him, and before he could speak Madame Triquet 
had exclaimed : 

“it/a/oe, Desire ! and is it really you ? 

In the excitement of the day, and the sud- 
den emotion called up by his resemblance to his 
dead mother. La Veuve Triquet had forgotten all 
prudence, and received him with open arms, 
and he had kissed her affectionately on both 
cheeks. 

Then he turned to look at the little figure that 
he felt rather than saw close beside her mother, 
and somehow it seemed necessary to take Marie’s 
hand and kiss it. How lovely she had grown in 
his absence ! The rosebud had expanded ! 

Perhaps La Veuve was struck too with the 
change that time had made in Desire ; his face 
was closely shaven, except a pair of severe mus- 
taches, almost matching in color the rich bronze 
of his skin. He looked more thoughtful, and cer- 
tainly far sterner, than La Veuve had thought 
possible ; his eyes were brown, like his mother’s, 
but their expression had changed. Perhaps his 
uniform and his medals — for he had three of the 
decorations the French love so dearly — impressed 
her. The result was that, instead of dismissing 
him in her usual patronizing, good-humored man- 
ner, she was still listening with breathless interest 
2 


18 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


to liis account of the last great battle — Solferino — 
when they reached the Rue Notre-Dame. 

The flood of remembrance that had fllled De- 
sire’s eyes as he entered the Place Saint-Pierre 
had been dried up by the sunshine of Marie’s 
presence. He had tried several times to get a 
peep at her after the flrst greeting, but he felt 
that she was there on the other side of her mother. 
Ah ! if that walk could have continued — and sure- 
ly it must do so — it seemed to him that it could 
never cease. His heart was drawn out of him ; it 
was with Marie ! 

He had forgotten all else. He took no notice 
of many friendly greetings ; he did not cast one 
backward look at his favorite spire, framed by 
the carved woodwork of the projecting gables on 
either side, which seemed to keep up an everlast- 
ing nodding to each other, possibly of congratula- 
tion of being spared, in their half-timbered age 
and quaintness, amid the universal creation of 
new, unpicturesque stone buildings. Hor did De- 
sire so much as glance onward at the two land- 
marks of the town — the famous spires of St.-Eti- 
enne — which fllled the farther end of the street. 
Soldier though he was, he had still enough of sen- 
timent to have fancied a welcome in every well- 
known object ; but all sense was mastered by pas- 
sion, and the ardent longing to discover whether 
it was in any degree returned. 

‘‘ And for how long are you settled here, my 


THE RETURN HOME. 


19 


friend?” said La Yeuve, as they neared the shop 
windows, full of tempting pastry, above which 
‘‘La Veuve Triquet,” in large, golden, raised let- 
ters, told that she had reached her home. 

“ For three or four months, and I have a leave 
of some weeks. But, Madame Triquet, now that 
war is over, I am tempted to leave the army, and 
settle here for good. I don’t like an idle life ; and 
to be a soldier in garrison — mafoi! it is as dull 
as ditch-water.” 

“Well, well, well; you will talk to your fa- 
ther.” La Yeuve’s volubility increased, for she 
suddenly remarked the direction Desire’s eyes had 
taken — as they now stood still, the young people 
were face to face — and a side glance showed her 
Marie’s crimson blushes. “ And, my friend, I say 
to you d tantot ; I am forgetting your father’s 
anxiety in my selfish pleasure at seeing you. Hast- 
en to him at once. There, I will not listen while 
you say another word ! ” She pushed Marie into 
the shop, and then stood in the doorway herself ; 
and, though she wore no crinoline, almost filled 
the space as she planted a hand on each broad hip. 
“ Run to Auge, like a good boy, and don’t keep 
your father waiting. Remember, you are all he 
has left, cepauvre 

The words touched Desire. Marie’s image 
was succeeded rapidly by the last conscious look 
on his dying mother’s face — a look that had haunt- 
ed him often. Now, on the sudden impulse, he 


20 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


turned away, after a hastily-taken farewell, and 
full of the strong resolve of youth, wearied of 
the distance that still lay between him and his 
last remaining parent. 

Ah, children ! ah, friends ! how perfect are all 
our future “ castles ! ” How ruined and incom- 
plete those we have tried to build ! Will no warn- 
ings teach us ? Will nothing but repeated fail- 
ure satisfy us that it is only in romances that sud- 
den conversions are effected, and dispositions, 
which have been hardening against each other for 
years like blocks of granite, wiU not in a day min- 
gle like the sands of the sea ? Only our own ex- 
perience can teach us the bitter truth that impulse 
and will are not all that we require ; there must 
be patience and perseverance to aid the work. As 
the silkworm has surrounded itself, by little and 
little, with its warm nest, so must we unwind the 
golden thread of habit patiently and slowly, if 
we would not lose the clew to its entii'e unravel- 
ment. But Desir6 was young, ardent, and igno- 
rant ; he only thought that he would and could 
be for the future such a model son as the world 
had never seen, and that his father would love 
him dearly. 

Martin embraced him on his first arrival, and 
then pushed him back and looked in his face. He 
clasped his hands over his eyes and turned away, 
shuddering. Desir4 guessed that the likeness 
which he knew still existed between himself and 


THE RETURN HOME. 


21 


his mother was the cause of this, and he tried to 
soothe his father by affectionate words, and an 
assurance that now he had come home he hoped 
to make him less desolate. But Martin started 
up, looked wildly about him, as if seeking for some 
one, and then, bursting into a hard, sneering laugh, 
left the cottage. 

There had never been thorough confidence be- 
tween Desire and his father. His mother’s fre- 
quent secret unhappiness, and the cold indifference 
with which her husband treated her, had roused a 
determined spirit of opposition in the boy, some- 
times shown in open acts of rebellion. Martin had 
rarely tyrannized over him. Now he seemed quite 
changed. When they met again in the evening, 
he looked at his son with distrust, and was evident- 
ly greatly disturbed when the young soldier an- 
nounced the length of his leave. 

D4sir4 thought he was much aged ; his little, 
active figure was bent, the wrinkles on his face 
had deepened, and he was thin to emaciation. His 
son remembered that he had often been accused of 
miserly ways by his fellow-fishermen, and he be- 
gan to see that his solitary life had increased these, 
and that he probably shrank from the burden of 
an inmate for so long a period. 

But next day brought no softening in his 
father’s manner — rather increased hardness in the 
sneering comments he pronounced on all Desire 
related ; and the young man began to feel that 


22 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


Martin had taken his wife’s death more to heart 
than any one had supposed possible, and that the 
loss of her influence had made his own filial task 
a hard one. 

On the third day his father remained at home, 
and Desire seized the opportunity of speaking 
openly to him of Marie, and of his hopes and 
wishes. Martin listened in profound silence, and 
then he shook his head. “ And I tell thee no, my 
boy. Thou art like the little birds which peep 
over the edge of the nest, and then think they 
have seen the world. If thou beginnest life with 
a bag of debts tied round thy neck, it will grow 
weightier and weightier, till either it will strangle 
and make an end of thee, or thou mayst be tempt- 
ed to fling it and thy conscience away together.” 

“ When my father is the creditor ? Foi de ma 
me ! Dost thou then think that military honor is 
all we soldiers learn to care for ? ” 

Desir6 knit his bushy eyebrows together, but 
the look he gave his father was more sorrowful 
than angry. 

‘‘ Honor ! ” Martin Lelievre’s smile had a 
mocking quality in it, which made his smooth, 
brown, wrinkled face, with its lipless mouth and 
small, gray, watery eyes, realize one’s ideal of 
“ Redcapsly.” “Honor is very well, my son, 
under a glass case. The rich never take the case 
off. As to us poor, dame ! hunger and thirst and 
every want of Nature crush the glass early for us ; 


THE RETURN HOME. 23 

but debt, mon am% it must be strong glass indeed 
which resists that pressure ! ” 

Desire turned away. He longed, too, to pre- 
serve peace in his home, the home he had not seen 
for more than a year, and which had seemed to 
him on his first arrival a paradise, full of fresh 
memories of childhood, of his mother, whose death 
had driven him from it. He came out of the cot- 
tage. There was no use in self-deceit. His father 
was in earnest ; his marriage with Marie was hope- 
less for the present ; and, what pressed heavier 
still, the truth he had so long suspected without 
knowing what he feared had been uttered. His 
father had no belief in honor or honesty — ^not even 
in his. The terrible doubt that followed stupefied 
him — was Martin himself honest ? But he thrust 
it away. He might find himself unable to con- 
tinue to love his father, but he would try to re- 
spect him. But now he must act. He had asked 
Martin to admit him as partner in his fishery, to 
demand Marie Triquet in marriage, and to lend 
him the sum of three hundred and seventy-five 
francs necessary to pay for his discharge for the re- 
maining nine months of his military service ; and 
the old man, as we have seen, had refused decid- 
edly to be a party to any scheme which would be- 
gin his son’s new life with debt, although he had 
confessed to Desire that his inheritance would 
some day be larger than he expected. 

There was energy beneath young Leli^vre’s 


24 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


ardor — energy that not only raised his drooping 
hopes, hut kept them sustained. In some ways 
it was a relief not to he associated with his father. 
Two days had taught him the difference between 
intentions and actions ; nothing less than a miracle 
could make life easy when passed with such a man 
as Martin Lelievre ; surely his wife’s deatn must 
have changed him strangely. It seemed to Desire, 
as he walked slowly up and down on the sands, 
that, although his father had been always hard, 
and sneering, and impracticable, he had never 
spoken the reckless words or avowed the lawless 
opinions that escaped him now unchecked. 

The fishermen came in with their nets, the girls 
and women with their spades and knives, and full 
baskets. D4sire seemed to be searching the sands 
for some undiscoverable object, so slowly did 
he walk along, his head bent down, his hands 
clasped behind him, while his eyes never left the 
ground. 

Suddenly he stood still, and then hastily re- 
traced his steps to the cottage. 

Martin was stooping over the open fireplace, 
stirring his soup-pot. His supple figure looked 
still slighter in his fisherman’s garb of dark blue, 
the knitted jersey fitted him closely, and the 
sleeves, rolled back to the elbow, showed the 
knotted intricacies of his muscular arms ; the fire- 
light gleamed on his dark face, with its regular 
features, qompressed mouth, and smoothly wrin- 


THE RETURN HOME. 


25 


kled skin ; his scarlet nightcap was pulled down 
nearly to his restless gray eyes, which seemed to 
be always seeking something never found. 

He started quickly as his son’s step sounded on 
the cottage floor. 

‘‘ Eh Men ! Where art thou going now ? ” 

Martin spoke in a surprised tone, for Desire 
went straight to the armoire — which, with three 
chairs, a henchj and a round table, made all the 
furniture — took out his uniform, and began rapid- 
ly to exchange his working-clothes for it. 

“ I am going to Caen, my father.” 

“ To Caen ! And for what ? Thou art not 
such a fool. Desire, as to thrust thyself into the 
jaws of that she- wolf. La Triquet, that she may 
crunch thee at her pleasure. No ; thou art my 
son ! Thou couldst not be such a dunce as to 
make thine own proposal. But listen.” ^He raised 
both hands, and then with a quick gesture extend- 
ed them toward his son. “ I am not so indiffer- 
ent as thou mayst think, Deslr'e mio, aha! hai 
capita ! I have not been in thine Italy, yef thou 
seest I know something. There is no room here 
for another fisherman. I tell thee, besides, Marie 
Triquet is too friande for a fish- wife ; and besides, 
I like to be alone. Find employment somewhere 
else. Then we will see. We promise nothing, 
however ; absolutely nothing.” 

An eager hope sprang into his son’s eyes at the 
beginning of his speech ; but, at the closing words. 


26 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


it faded away into the same dull, sad expression 
that had filled them while he paced up and down 
the sands. 

He just nodded, muttered “ d tantot^'^ and then, 
stepping over the threshold, as soon as he had set- 
tled his cap firmly on his head, he strode rapidly 
toward Caen. 

At the great Calvary nearest the city he saw a 
young girl kneeling, but he scarcely noticed her 
as he hurried on. 

The girl was rising from her knees as he passed ; 
she stood looking after hin^. 

She was not pretty, rather above middle height, 
and slenderly made. It was easy to see by her 
costume that she belonged to a fishing-village, 
though she wore one of the invariable close-fitting 
caps with cock’s-comb frill of lace a-top that char- 
acterize tb® women of Caen nowadays. 

She was not pretty. She had nothing in the 
way of complexion or features to attract notice ; 
but there was a stamp of candor and intelligence 
on her face and a soft light in her dark-gray eyes 
as she looked after D6sire Lelievre. 

She turned again to the Calvary, and offered 
up a prayer for her old playmate, and then came 
down the steps and set out briskly on the way to 
Auge. This was Mimi or Emilie Fay el, the sister 
of Desire’s friend Jacques. Though Desir4 had 
been the hero of his own village, he had had in 
his boyhood no eyes or words for any girl except 
Marie Triquet. 


THE COUNSEL OF CAPTAIN DE GRAGNAC. 27 


CHAPTER 11. 

THE COUNSEL OF CAPTAIN DE GRAGNAC. 

Monsieur de Gragnac, the captain of De- 
sire’s company, was sitting smoking in his lodg- 
ing when there came a rapping at the door. 

He said ‘‘ Entrez ” not quite as cheerfully as 
usual, for on the table before him lay an uncut 
yellow volume, just sent by the author, and he 
was longing to read it, with the mixture of inter- 
est, curiosity, and unbelief with which we gener- 
ally peruse the books of our dear friends and rel- 
atives ; but his cheerful look came back when he 
saw who his visitor was. He added a smiling 
“ bonjour ” to Desire Leli^vre’s military salute. 

“Well, Lelievre, what is it? I thought you 
had got a month’s leave.” 

“Yes, yes, monsieur.” Desir6 said these words 
quickly enough, but there he stopped. 

“You have got into some scrape, then, and 
you think that I can help you. Very well, mon 
ami, tell me at once what it is.” 

Pardon, Monsieur le Capitaine, it is a scrape, 
and it is not. Mafoi! it is — that— that I want 
to get my discharge.” 

“ Comment f your discharge ! ” The captain 
sat bolt upright ; he had till now leaned back in 
his chair, smoking his cigar as leisurely as before 
Desire entered. 


28 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


“Why, you have scarcely seen more than a 
year’s service !” 

“ It is true, Monsieur le Capitaine ; hut the 
war is over, and I cannot lead an idle life, and — 
and — I have another reason besides.” 

And then, little by little, the captain drew 
from Desire the story of his love for Marie, which 
he told, too, like a man, without any sheepish 
false shame. He said that since he had seen 
Marie again he felt quite sure that his head would 
always be filled with her, and that he should 
never do any good at anything till he was mar- 
ried. And when this was all said, D4sire drew a 
long breath, like one who has laid down a burden, 
and feels all the better for it. 

The captain leaned back in his chair. He had 
taken the cigar from his lips, and held it between 
the fingers of one hand while he twisted and re- 
twisted his mustaches with the other. Captain 
de Gragnac was a brave and distinguished soldier, 
and he was not particularly selfish, but to him 
evidently the infatuation of such a love as Desire’s 
was an enigma. 

“ What a horrible waste of life,” he thought, 
“for this fine, handsome young fellow, with a 
world full of women before him, at one-and- 
twenty to give up all freedom and tie himself to 
a pretty-faced doll— for what else can she be at 
seventeen ? — and a life of hard labor to support 
perhaps a large family ! ” 


THE COUNSEL OF CAPTAIN DE GRAGNAC. 29 

“Well,” he said at last, for Desire moved 
restlessly, as if impatient for his answer. “ I’ve 
no doubt you think you are right, mon brave^ but 
there seem to me two or three points still to be 
considered. You say you feel sure, if you can 
find yourself an employment, your father will find 
the three hundred and seventy-five francs to pay 
off your coming time of service. Bon! But, 
now, first, employment which will keep a wife 
and children is not found directly one looks for 
it, as you find crabs in the rocks, Leli^vi;e ; and 
next, is your father also willing to furnish the 
necessary funds for your mohilierf — for your 
savings out of a year’s service can’t be much — we 
all know how little profit there was in our Italian 
campaign. And, also, I think there are more idle 
employments than that of a soldier in garrison.” 

Lelievre smiled. He felt secretly disappoint- 
ed ; he had always looked on his captain as all- 
powerful, knowing him to be — what is rare 
among French officers of the line — both well-born 
and influential ; and it is wonderful, considering 
all things, how deeply the reverence for gentle 
blood is rooted in the hearts of French provin- 
cials. 

“ I am not afraid for the mobilier, monsieur ; 
besides, it does not cost much — a bed, an armoire, 
a table, some chairs, some articles for cooking, 
and that is all. I have some of these things, 
which belonged to my mother before she married; 


30 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


they are mine now ” — he looked very sad as he 
said this — “ and for the rest, I think Madame 
Triquet would help me if my father would 
not.” 

The captain was still contemplating 
Desire as if he were an animal of a new species. 
Marriage was to Monsieur de Gragnac an institu- 
tion — nothing more — an admirable institution at 
forty-five or fifty years of age. When life begins 
to be as fatiguing as heretofore it has been charm- 
ing, it is well to take a wife, or rather to allow one’s 
mother or aunt to take a wife for one, to look 
after one’s income and one’s mhiage, an agreeable, 
douce compagne, who will make the evening of 
one’s days pass pleasantly ; but to mix up love 
and its hopes and fears and passionate joys and 
griefs with such an institution was. Captain de 
Gragnac had hitherto thought, only a state of 
mind to be met with in novels ; so unreal, so im- 
probable, such a falsehood against the existing 
state of things, as perfectly to justify mothers in 
keeping such pernicious amusements as novels 
from the reading of their young daughters. He 
thought over all his acquaintances. Never once 
had he heard of such a folly as a marriage, the 
origin of which had been mutual affection. And 
how could it be ? If he married, he should get 
his mother to ask some young lady of her parents 
— he should have a peep at her first at the opera, 
or, if that were not practicable, he should content 


THE COUNSEL OF CAPTAIN DE GRAGNAC. 31 

himself with her photograph ; then he should be 
presented to her as her future husband, and he 
should see her at most three or four times, in her 
mother’s presence ; she would call him “ mon- 
sieur ” and he would call her ‘‘ mademoiselle ” till 
they married. 

He took his cigar out of his mouth again when 
he came to the end of these reflections, and looked 
up at Desire. It might be that this sort of thing 
was usual among the people. Certainly, he had 
never had a confldence of the heart from one of 
his soldiers before. Love, as a stepping-stone to 
marriage, might — ^who could say ? — ^be as common 
among badly-born people as the custom of wear- 
ing blouses among the peasantry. But then again 
it might only be an infatuation of this young sol- 
dier’s. Clearly it was his duty to caution him. 

“Is this the first love affair you’ve had, Le- 
li^vre?” 

Desire reddened. There was something very 
practical and unsympathizing in the way the cap- 
tain said “ love affair.” 

“ Mafoi ! monsieur ” — ^he shrugged his shoul- 
ders — “ I don’t mean to say Marie’s the only girl 
I ever fancied ; but she’s the only one I ever 
wished to make my wife.” 

“And is it, do you think, wise — ^when you 
confess that your head is so full of her as to in- 
terfere with your duties — to make her yom- 
wife ? ” 


32 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


“ Comment^ Monsieur le Capitainef^^ D6sir6 
looked flushed and astonished. 

“ Understand me, mon ami, these fierce flames 
confuse the brain with their smoke while they 
last, and die out quickly. Take my word for it, 
Leli^vre, when you have been married to your 
wife two months you may feel friendship for her, 
but no longer love. Now a great many more 
qualities are wanting to fulfill the requirements 
of a sentiment than of a passion.” The captain 
smiled here, and raised his eyebrows at himself, 
for talk so far above the comprehension of his 
hearer. “ What I mean is,” he said quickly, “ are 
you not too much in love now to judge whether 
Marie is likely to suit you as a wife ? ” 

And now again Captain de Gragnac smiled at 
himself. According to this doctrine an intimate 
acquaintance with your future wife before mar- 
riage was necessary for your happiness. No, it 
could not be for well-bred folks, or it would be 
“ de rlgle ; ” but for “ the people,” who must ne- 
cessarily live afterward in much closer compan- 
ionship, it doubtless was so. 

“ But, monsieur, it is the love I have so long 
felt for her, and which the sight of her has — has 
— has — ^well, monsieur, I can’t tell you how I love 
her now. That makes me sure she is the girl I 
ought to marry.” 

The captain felt there was no use in pro- 
longing the argument. He and Desire were 


TIJE COUNSEL OF CAPTAIN DE GRAGNAC. 33 

only talking in an unknown tongue each to the 
other. 

‘‘ Have you thought of any employment ? ” he 
said. 

‘‘Well, monsieur, that is what I came to you 
for. I should like out-door work best, if I could 
get it ; hut, you know the farmers give such 
small pay hereabouts that it’s only the women 
who will take it.” 

“ If you had served longer, you might have 
had a chance of being named garde-champUre ; 
but you see, my friend, that is only given to old 
soldiers. It is their perquisite, in fact. Really, 
I don’t know how to help you.” 

And again he put his cigar in his mouth, and 
puffed away vigorously. 

“ If I could get a post as gardener,” said De- 
sire, “to some gentleman, monsieur’s recommen- 
dation would help me greatly.” 

“But what do you know about gardening? 
Gardening is a business which must be learned.” 

“Jl/a yb^, monsieur! I am determined to 
earn a living, and I would soon learn what was 
necessary.” 

“ Well, then, be patient for two days,” said 
Monsieur de Gragnac. “ I am going to Le Callac, 
and I may possibly hear of something to suit 
you ; and, meantime, you can think of all I have 
said to you.” 

Desire poured forth his thanks with the effu- 


34 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


sion only a Frenchman is capable of, the tears 
glistening in his eyes while he did so, and then 
he made his military salute and departed. 

Young as he was, he had a remarkable power 
of influencing those to whom he spoke. His 
handsome, intelligent face may have had some- 
thing to do with this; but his manner was so sim- 
ple and truthful, so entirely free from self-conceit, 
while it conveyed the impression of earnest self- 
dependence, that hitherto, although he might not 
have so many acquaintances as some of his com- 
rades, he had never lost a friend. 

Monsieur de Gragnac felt a warm interest in 
his fortunes, although he still thought Desir4 was 
throwing himself away. By good chance the lord 
of the domain at Le Callac was in want of a garde. 
He said he would prefer a soldier — so great a mo~ 
ralatrice is the French army now esteemed — and 
he would take any soldier out of Captain de Gra- 
gnac’s company without other recommendation 
than that of having served under him. As the 
country round was wild and uninhabited, he should 
prefer an active young man to an older one. 

Captain de Gragnac sent for his protege as soon 
as he returned to Caen, and Desire seemed scarce- 
ly able to believe in his good fortune. He stood 
still, looking at the captain, unable to bring out a 
word of thanks. 

“ The worst of it is,” said Monsieur de Gra- 
gnac, smiling — for he quite understood the young 


DIESIRE’S COURTSHIP. 


35 


man’s emotion — “ that I fear this will serve to in- 
crease your marriage madness. The pay of a pri- 
vate garde is, as you probably know, just double 
that of a public one.” 


CHAPTER III. 
desiee’s cotjetship. 

To Desire’s great surprise, when he told his 
father of his good fortune, Martin Leli^vre looked 
pleased, and said, cheerfully, that he supposed the 
next move would be to ask the pretty Marie of 
Madame Triquet. 

The son had expected opposition, sulkiness, a 
final coming round, perhaps, after much persever- 
ance on his own part. This sudden yielding filled 
him with joy. 

He embraced his father heartily, but Martin 
repulsed him ; told him to keep his demonstra- 
tions for Marie, and then deliberately dressed him- 
self in all his best clothes, and started off to await 
at the cross-road the diligence which conveyed 
travelers to Caen. 

He peremptorily refused to let Desire go with 
him. 

Old heads waggle together best alone,” he 
said ; “ young ones are always de trop when there 


36 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


is business to be done ; besides — who knows ? — La 
Mere Triquet may have promised her daughter 
elsewhere, and may tell me I’m seeking feathers 
from a plucked chicken.” 

He said the last words, not as if he believed 
•in such a possibility, but because he could not re- 
sist the opportunity of sneering at his son’s hopes ; 
and once again Desire stood still, bewildered at 
the change that had come over his father. 

Had grief for his wife’s death struck so deep as 
to change his sullen, sulky nature to the reckless, 
wild, mocking fits that at times possessed him now, 
or was his mind giving way ? Only this last sur- 
mise could account for the terrified glances he at 
times darted round the rooms, and the ghastly pale- 
ness that followed. 

The day seemed long to Desire. He knew his 
father could not return before evening. He wan- 
dered up and down the sands till the tide drove 
him away, and then he climbed to the heights 
beyond them, with a vague hope — although he 
knew it was far too soon — of seeing a cart in the 
distance — for his father had said he should trust 
to some chance mode of coming home. 

Desire tried to recollect every look and word 
of Marie’s since his return — he had managed to 
see her several times after his first interview with 
Captain de Gragnac ; and each time — so it seemed 
to him — she had been more willing to listen while 
he spoke, and had looked up in his face more and 


D^lSIRlS’S COURTSHIP. 


37 

more sweetly when he wished her and her mother 
good-by. 

It must — it should come right ! and yet, al- 
though he could not find the slightest shadow of 
foundation for it, a film of doubt and mistrust 
came between his mental sight and the bright 
future pictures his fancy drew. At last the long 
day came to an end ; the gray and orange tints of 
the cliffs changed to burnished gold as the setting 
sunlight flashed over them ; and, as Desire looked 
once more toward the high-road, winding its up- 
and-down course into the interior, he saw some- 
thing moving on it. 

The soft, moss-like earth yielded as he sprang 
again into the path below, and hurried toward the 
road. 

It was the fisherman. 

“Well, well!” he said, mockingly, “I have 
not had my journey for nothing ! ” 

Desire poured out his thanks — ^he could scarce- 
ly believe in his happiness — but he did not this 
time attempt to embrace his father. “ Eh hien — 
what has happened? Tell me everything, my 
father.” 

“ Bah ! thou art like a woman, D6sire — ^they 
must always have words ; men should be content 
with facts. What wilt thou ? La Veuve is will- 
ing to take thee for a son-in-law as soon as thou 
hast got thy discharge.” 

Desire’s eyes spoke the eager q[uestion that came. 


38 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


“ Tais-toi !'^^ — Martin put up his hand to check 
the young man’s words — “ the money will be paid 
at once ; and if thou art bent on running thy head 
into a halter — a halter, mind, that can never be 
unfastened — why, thou mayest see Marie to-mor- 
row, after thou hast arranged the matter with thy 
captain. He will tell thee how to manage the 
affair ; for me, I have done enough.” 

His look and manners were bitterly unkind, 
and he turned away with unfriendly haste as if to 
check the expression of his son’s gratitude. It 
seemed to Desire that the fisherman was acting a 
part to conceal his real feelings. The next min- 
ute the young man blamed himself for such a sus- 
picion ; something had happened in Caen to annoy 
his father, or — who could tell ? — the prospect of 
his son’s marriage might have recalled his own, 
and its sad ending ; and such a rugged, deter- 
mined nature as Martin Leli^vre’s was not a 
likely one to betray his sorrow even to his only 
child. 

But Desir4 was too happy to think much about 
anybody besides Marie. Happy is scarcely the 
word ; it was a fevered rapture, under which he 
took no heed of time or anything that passed 
around him. 

It was even more unreal, more dream-like, next 
day, in La Veuve’s back-parlor, as he sat close 
beside Marie, holding one of her dear little soft 
hands in his, and looking into her face. It is true 


DESIRE’S COURTSHIP. 


39 


her mother sat opposite — had sat opposite even 
when he pressed his first kiss on Marie’s blushing 
forehead. Her presence was neither necessary nor 
satisfactory ; hut, then, these were early days, and 
the young girl’s extreme timidity had made De- 
sire, ardent lover as he was, feel bashful in taking 
that first kiss. 

It was very delicious to sit there looking at the 
pretty, modest girl, whose blue eyes had not once 
fully met his, and feeling that she would soon be 
all his own. Only he wished a customer would 
come into the shop. He did not want to listen to 
La Veuve’s incessant talk ; he wanted to say many 
little words to Marie, which would be most unin- 
teresting to her sharp - eared mother ; also, he 
wanted to see how those blue eyes looked with 
the lashes lifted, and whether he could not make 
the rosy lips dimple into a smile. Above all, he 
wanted to hear Marie say she loved him, and there 
was no hearing anything with Madame Triquet in 
presence. 

There came a quick tread of little feet in the 
shop ; his heart throbbed with pleasant anticipa- 
tions. La Veuve must surely attend to her cus- 
tomers ! But Desire’s hopes were not to he ful- 
filled so speedily. 

‘‘ Make haste, mon chou ! thou must never let 
anything domestic interfere with business — must 
she, mon gar^on f ” She looked at Desire as if she 
were sure of his approval, and quite unconscious 


40 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


of the rueful gaze with which his eyes followed 
Marie into the shop. She talked glibly for a few 
minutes, and then, getting no answer, she looked 
up with a sharp twinkle in her eyes. 

“You are hurried, my friend ; and it is a pity, 
too, for a fine youth to waste his day in chatter- 
ing to an old woman over her tricot. Yes, yes, I 
know that you are polite, but I cannot suffer it. 
This is Marie’s business time. She may be obliged 
to remain in the shop for an hour — what do I 
know ? for two — for three hours ! ” 

“ But I am in no hurry,” persisted Desir4. 

“ Ah ! you are so kind ; but this which I tell 
you is better, is it not ? You will come next Sun- 
day, and you will accompany the little Marie to 
St.-Pierre for Le Salut ; and after you can take 
her, if you will, for a promenade in the Cours 
Caffarelli. Mon Dim ! I tell you that it is deli- 
cious there in the cool of the evening.” 

Here was a charming prospect. With the cer- 
tainty of having Marie to himself for several hours 
he grew reconciled to the present parting, and he 
bade adieu to Madame Triquet more easily than 
she expected. 

“Aw revoir, mon ami ! My remembrance to 
your good father.” She held out her dimpled 
hand to him ; then, as if prompted by an after- 
thought, she called after him : 

“ Don’t stop tattling in the shop ; you know 
that it might compromise Marie.” 


D]6SIR16’S courtship. 


41 


She winked and smiled good-humoredly, but 
Desire passed on without answering. 

He found the shop empty. 

Marie was sitting behind one of the counters, 
bending over her embroidery-frame. 

Desire bent over it, too ; but, before he could 
whisper a word, a warning tap sounded on the 
glass door of the parlor, and made them both start. 

Desire reddened. This sort of espionage was 
hateful. However, he thought of Sunday, and 
decided that it was, on the whole, wiser not to 
provoke Madame Triquet by resistance, on the 
first day of his courtship. 

When he reached the pastry-cook’s next Sun- 
day, he was grievously disappointed to find that 
La Veuve not only meant to accompany her daugh- 
ter, but that she proposed to walk between him 
and Marie. 

‘‘It is charming, you know, to feel that one 
has a child on each arm,” she said to Desire. 

He found the service, short as it was, very 
wearisome ; it is over at last ; the benediction is 
said ; the chairs squeak and scrape over the floor 
as every one hastens outside into the cooler air. 
He is beside Marie again as she mounts the steps 
and dips her fingers into the holy-water stoup. 

They pass out of church through the great 
sculptured western doorway, and an acquaintance 
fastens herself on Madame Triquet. This is De- 
sire’s opportunity, and he offers his arm to Marie; 


42 


THE FISHERMAN OF ATJGE. 


but she shakes her head, and glances at her mother. 
She looks at Desire, however; but there is no 
response in her eyes to the love which fills , his 
own. 

‘‘Marie,” he whispers, tenderly, “do you re- 
member fair-time, before I went away ? ” 

Marie smiles sweetly, and says “yes” in a 
pleasant voice ; and yet Desire is not satisfied ; he 
expected a blush and drooping eyelids for answer, 
and, somehow, he would have prefen’ed this reply 
to any word at all ; for that fairing had been his 
first effort at making Marie understand his devo- 
tion — a pink, heart-shaped sucre depomme^ trans- 
fixed by a thick, golden arrow, with a fan inside. 
Madame Triquet’s acquaintance walks on with her, 
and Marie and Desire are side by side. 

Madame Le Petit is full of news. Her hus- 
band has been to Paris, to learn the fashions, and 
she has marvels to describe in the way of coiffure 
and costume. And, besides, Monsieur Le Petit 
has brought back some choice canards and tidbits 
of scandal — fresh and astounding to the female 
Norman mind — the bourgeoisie of Caen not being 
addicted to the reading of newspapers, and being, 
moreover, inhabitants of one of the purest and 
simplest cities of France. 

Madame Triquet is desperately anxious to 
listen to these stories, and yet more desirous that 
they shall not reach Marie’s ears, and, little by lit- 
tle, she turns away from her daughter and Desire, 


D^SIR^’S COURTSHIP. 


43 


till her head almost touches that of IVIadame Le 
Petit. 

It is dusk when they reach the Cours Caffa- 
relli, almost gloomily dark on beyond, where the 
lights from the town and the quays can no longer 
penetrate the shadow beneath the solemn lines of 
poplar-trees that border the Ome. 

There are birds singing still among the trees 
on the other side of the river, and, when the young 
people turn homeward again, the scene before them 
has an almost unreal beauty, as the lights reflect 
themselves in the dark, silent water, and glow like 
a file of glow-worms along the basin of the harbor. 

Desire talks softly to Marie — she questions him 
about Italy ; and, though he would rather have 
spoken of his love, he answers all she asks, and 
grows animated out of the soft languor that had 
tied his tongue while they walked under the trees 
in the Cours. 

They have reached the Place Royale, and still 
Madame Le Petit’s tongue wags, and Madame 
Triquet listens. 

The Place is crowded with townspeople, prom- 
enading up and down. 

There are only a few gas-lamps there, and it is 
just that sort of confused, indistinct crowd one 
likes to find one’s self in with one’s beloved. One 
feels sure that every look and word is only marked 
by her. 

Desire did not again ask Marie to take his arm. 


44 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


He took her hand and drew it gently to his heart, 
prisoning it so tightly that she could not with- 
draw it. 

Did Marie feel the fierce bounds with which 
its presence was greeted ? If she did, she was not 
displeased thereat ; for she only smiled sweetly up 
at Desire the next time he spoke. 

That tUe-d-tete was like an intoxicating dream. 
Both he and Marie started and fiushed as madame, 
having said to her gossip, suddenly 

bethinks herself of her daughter, and turns her 
head. 

“ Ma foiy Marie, thou shouldst not quit my 
arm ! and you, Desire, will give me yours.” 

It is all over, and when will it come again ? 

It is very dark as they turn out of the Place 
into the narrower streets, where the lamps are 
scarcer. There is a diligence ready to start as 
they pass ; but Desire chooses to walk to Auge. 

It will only take me three hours,” he says, as 
they part at Madame Triquet’s door ; and then he 
whispers to Marie that he shall think of her all the 
way. He can say no more ; for La Veuve de- 
clares that they are very late. 


LES REGATES. 


45 


CHAPTER IV. 

LES REGATES. 

Desire’s courtship went on smoothly enough 
to outward eyes. Marie continued to smile sweet- 
ly on him, and Madame Triquet generally walked 
home from church on Sundays with her gossip, the 
wife of the coiffeur. She would also occasionally 
take Marie’s place in the shop, and give the lovers 
a five minutes’ talk. And yet Desir^ was not as 
happy as he expected — perhaps no one ever is ; but 
although he loved Marie more passionately than 
ever, he could not feel satisfied that she loved him. 

She was no longer timid with him, but her 
manner was quite as cold, quite as unresponsive, 
as on the day when he had placed his ring on 
her finger ; more so, for then she had blushed 
and trembled. Now her sweet calmness was al- 
most irritating. 

However, in one month more she would be his 
wife, and then all would be right. The FMe de 
VEmpereur was close at hand, and he was to ac- 
company Marie and her mother to see the regatta : 
the second morning after the fUe he was to start 
for Le Callac, and to take possession of his new 
post. 

Although this journey would separate him from 
Marie, he looked forward to it as a means of short- 


46 the fisherman of auge. 

ening the time before him. His new duties, a new 
way of life, would help to distract his thoughts 
and make him less anxious, for much of Desire’s 
light-heartedness had vanished with his betrothal. 
This might be partly caused by Madame Triquet’s 
constant and domineering interference ; lately, 
whatever Desire did or said was sure to be wrong 
with her. The young man did not choose to quar- 
rel with Marie’s mother ; but he had naturally a 
fiery spirit, and on each occasion he felt it more 
difficult to restrain himself. A temporary absence 
from this danger would be a great relief. 

He had obtained permission to take service 
with the captain’s friend ; but he would not be 
able to get his entire discharge from the army till 
the evening before his marriage, so that on the 
morning of the festival he went into Caen in full 
regimentals, and took his place for the last time 
among his comrades in the grand semi-ecclesiasti- 
cal, semi-military service in the Church of St.- 
Etienne. 

Desire’s eyes were more taken up in finding 
out Marie and her mother among the dense crowd 
of women which filled the lower end of the nave 
and aisles than in gazing at the splendid assem- 
blage of richly-robed priests, and the decorated 
and embroidered military and civic dignitaries 
grouped round about the high altar. 

Monsieur de Gragnac, who was pacing up and 
down the nave with another officer, their di-awn 


LES R^GATES. 


47 


swords gleaming on their shoulders, suddenly gave 
the word to the soldiers who lined either side — 

“ Portez genoux ! ” 

Desir^ started awake. He had forgotten every- 
thing but Marie, and the swelling organ had helped 
to dull him to outward things ; but now the crash- 
ing of the trumpets and the reverberating thunder 
of the drums, as the band struck up a furious mili- 
tary march, effectually dispelled all dreaming. 
Another burst from the two immense organs, al- 
most drowning the priests’ voices ; again the word 
of command, and the clash of arms ; then the 
drums and trumpets bellowing as if they tried to 
shake the lofty stone groining overhead ; the bene- 
diction, and the ceremony was over. 

All who had formed a part of the pageant fell 
into a procession, which only halted when it 
reached the Prefecture. Desire sought eagerly 
for Marie in the lane of gazing faces on either 
side the street as he marched along with his com- 
panions. In vain ! It was a real relief when at 
length he was at liberty to go and find her. 

La Veuve met him at her shop-door. 

‘‘A'A hien ! eh Men ! Monsieur Desire, that is 
pretty conduct for a lover ! We shall all be too 
late for the boat-race ; the best seats will all be 
taken ! If I had dreamed you meant to keep us 
waiting in this way, we would have started 
alone.” 

“ Where’s Marie ? ” he said, roughly ; for his 


48 


THE FISHERMAN OF AHGE. 


previous anxiety at not seeing her anywhere had 
not improved his stock of patience. 

“ Ah^ voild! that is it ! Where should she be, 
but crying, poor little angel, in the parlor, for fear 
she should miss the show ? ” 

Desird knew in his own mind that Marie was 
crying because he did not come ; but, instead of 
saying so, he pushed his way into the back-room, 
and found the little maiden arranging her cap- 
strings before the looking-glass. 

She was very pretty in her fete dress. Her 
soft white tulle cap, with its wreath of white satin 
bows over the forehead, suited her fair complex- 
ion admirably, and her plump little figure looked 
charming in her new gown of sprigged cambric. 

Desire had caught her in his arms and kissed 
her before La Veuve followed him ; but her voice 
was now heard urging speed, and Marie seemed 
quite anxious to escape from her lover, that she 
might arrange her striped shawl to the best ad- 
vantage before the glass. 

As they went along the crowded streets he 
managed to whisper to her that, when she was 
really his wife, he would not be set aside for a 
shawl. 

“ But, Desir6, 1 must always be well arranged, 
must I not ? ” and Marie pouted a little for the 
first time since her engagement. 

Every one was so hurrying along from all 
parts of the town toward the Basin of the har- 


LES REGATES. 


49 


bor that it would have been very difficult to take 
any but the direct route. The haste and excite- 
ment of the rest increased Madame Triquet’s irri- 
tation. 

“We shall be late ! ah, how late we shall be ! 
A\ del! what a thing it is to have to do with a 
man without any spirit of management ! Ah, if 
only my poor Triquet had been alive ! We would 
then have had places secured beforehand. ^N'o 
need to hurry and heat ourselves in this ridiculous 
manner. We are disgraced before the world ! ” 

But D6sir4 only shrugged his shoulders. He 
had a vivid remembrance that in former times 
Monsieur Triquet came in for even worse scold- 
ings than this, and that he himself had often felt 
thankful he had his own gentle mother instead of 
little Marie’s. 

When they reached the Basin, lined along each 
of its broad stone quays with rows of chairs and 
benches, there was not a front seat to be had. 

La Veuve darted a scorching glance on De- 
sire ; but there was no help for it. He told her 
she had best be quick, or she would have no chance 
even of the second row, which was filling fast. As 
soon as he had placed them. La Veuve imperiously 
bade him come on the other side of her ; but he 
told her he was not tired, and preferred standing 
behind Marie’s chair. 

He was vexed — there were tears in Marie’s 
eyes. He did not think she would have cared so 
4 


50 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


much about a front place. Poor little dear ! he 
wished he had not been late. 

He bought her a galette from one of the nu- 
merous hawkers, quite forgetting that she would 
naturally despise street pastry. She thanked him, 
but she was not hungry ; she only wanted to see 
the races. She seemed unnatural, excited, rest- 
less — not a bit like his own quiet little love. Ah, 
Desir4 ! you are not the first man who has dis- 
covered that a f^te day is apt to be a sure touch- 
stone of a woman’s temper. 

He was too much vexed to follow the wisest 
course in such a position — to forget self altogether, 
and enter into the universal gayety, of which the 
soldiers, scattered plentifully among the smiling, 
brightly-dressed spectators, were great promoters. 
Some of the grander folk were seated under a tent 
at one end of the Basin ; but all the jokes and 
laughter came from the merry-faced wearers of 
caps and blouses. Such caps ! of every variety — 
from the shopkeepers in point de Bruxelles, and 
their daughters in tulle and fiowers, to the humble 
maid-servants in the pretty caps made of embroid- 
ered cambric and Valenciennes lace — for a French 
girl must be poor, indeed, if she does not possess 
one expensive cap. Contrasted with the real Caen- 
nais head -covering — a close-fitting skull-cap of net 
or muslin, with something very like a white cock’s- , 
comb standing up across the forehead — ^here and 
there on the head of some well-to-do farmer’s 


LES R^GATES. 


51 


wife, who had come in for the occasion, dressed in 
her rich, brown-figured satin gown, with her em- 
broidered crimson velvet neckerchief, tucked down 
in front under the square bib of her black silk 
apron, rose the ponderous white structures now 
rarely seen except at Vire, and occasionally at 
Bayeux. Their wearers had all shining golden 
ear-rings, and crosses or medals hanging from their 
necks. 

But it was a very orderly crowd ; full of mirth, 
but also of courtesy ; each one being addressed 
as Madame or Monsieur, and much bowing and 
raising of hats being interchanged among the 
poorest. 

The boat-races were very unsatisfactory. The 
men did not row together ; their boats were large 
and lumbering ; there was no trimness, no order ; 
the vehement cries and gesticulations of the cock- 
swains forming a strange contrast to the loose, 
disorderly pulling, and provoking the incessant 
laughter of the spectators. 

The course de hdteaux Urangers'^^ began — 
said “ Ur angers ” being two of the most villainous- 
looking crews that ever handled an oar, any na- 
tional characteristic crushed out of their faces 
by the low monotonous brutality which made a 
strange resemblance among them. 

A well-dressed man had been hanging about in 
front of the first row of seats, rousing the indig- 
nation of some of the older women by interrupt- 


52 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


ing their view of the sports, hut smiled on by the 
younger ones, spite of the free, almost insolent, 
admiration he bestowed on them. He came up 
now and stood near Madame Triquet. 

He was tall, stout, and what is often consid- 
ered handsome ; he had a fair, sunburnt complex- 
ion, with curly auburn hair and beard, a good nose 
and mouth, and bright blue eyes. To Desir5, who 
had been silently watching him, he looked a thor- 
ough coxcomb, all the more offensive from the 
well-to-do, purse-present consciousness every gest- 
ure betrayed. 

La Veuve looked up suddenly, and caught De- 
sire’s fixed gaze. 

^'‘Eh Men^ mon gargon / what ails you ? Why 
should you give such sour looks at your betters ? ” 

She said it smilingly, as if she meant a rough 
joke; but he had already overstrained his for- 
bearance toward her. 

“Betters, madame ?” — his eyes flashed, and he 
reddened deeply — “ ma foi ! you forget to whom 
you are speaking.” 

Madame Triquet burst out laughing, and De- 
sire saw his folly in a moment. 

“ Do you mean seriously to compare yourself,” 
she said, “ to Monsieur Auguste Leroux ? Do you 
know that he has inherited all his father’s money ? 
Old Leroux is just dead, and he — that handsome 
young man — himself rents the large farm at Ar- 
daine, the beautiful ruined abbey, with a fortune 


LES R^GATES. 


53 


of hay and fodder inside, and another farm on the 
way to Auge.” 

She looked triumphant, as if to say, ‘‘ Match 
that, if you can ! ” 

But the young soldier was not looking at her. 
Monsieur Auguste Leroux had approached nearer, 
and was regarding Marie with the most open ad- 
miration. 

Just as Desire was going to jump over the two 
rows of seats to the front — his next move would, 
perhaps, have sent the Adonis of Ardaine into the 
Basin — the young farmer stood on one side, to 
allow an officer to pass by. It was Monsieur de 
Gragnac. He stopped and beckoned to Desire, 
who sprang across the chairs, heartily glad to find 
himself in front, where he could shelter Marie 
from insolent admiration far more easily than 
when standing behind her. 

Monsieur de Gragnac had a message to send 
to his friend at Le Callac, and Desire said he 
would call for it before he returned to Auge the 
next evening. 

“ Then you sleep in Caen to-night ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur, at the house of the father of 
one of my comrades ; it is the last Sunday I can 
spend with Marie” — ^he lowered his voice — ‘‘be- 
fore — before our marriage, and — ” his eyes led 
the captain’s attention to Marie. 

“ Ah ! I understand,” said De Gragnac, with 
good-humored pity. “Then, in a month’s time. 


54 the fisherman of auge. 

Lelievre, you mean to give up your liberty ? Is 
that young lady your fiancee f I compliment you 
on her looks,” he said, dropping his voice as Desi- 
re had done, “ and I hope you may be as happy as 
you expect.” 

Monsieur Auguste Leroux had been thrown 
into the shade while this dialogue was going on, 
the interest of the spectators had been drawn to 
the apparently confidential nature of the talk be- 
tween Desire and a captain with so many decora- 
tions ; and when, after returning the young man’s 
military salute. Monsieur de Gragnac gravely 
raised his cap to Marie and her mother, even La 
Veuve herself had no longer any eyes for the 
farmer. 

She burst into an animated panegyric of the 
captain’s face, figure, manners, legs, and every- 
thing belonging to him, with a glibness truly 
worthy of her sex and nation. 

Desire seemed quite in her good books again. 
She, perhaps, considered the notice the captain 
had bestowed on him had raised him in position, 
and, the next time Monsieur Auguste passed, honor- 
ing Marie with one of his most deliberate stares, 
Madame Triquet whispered to her to frown, and 
bristled all over with the fierce virtue of her in- 
dignation. 

Desir6 felt relieved. After all, it was much 
better that he had not exposed Marie to remark 
by any public show of annoyance. Poor little 


WHAT HAPPENED THE DAY AFTER. 55 

dear ! no doubt, the fellow’s insolence had vexed 
her quite enough, without any further mortifica- 
tion. 

And so, when the regatta was over, when the 
swimming-matches, evolutions on greased masts, 
and the duck-chase, had all been greeted with 
vehement applause and laughter, the three re- 
turned to the pdtisserie in a far more amiable 
mood than when they had left it. 


CHAPTER V. 

WHAT HAPPENED THE DAY AFTER. 

Next morning. Desire went with Marie and 
her mother to high-mass ; but, coming out, he 
left them at the church-door. It was better to 
get his instructions from Monsieur de Gragnac, 
and then he could spend all the rest of the after- 
noon quietly with his beloved, Madame Triquet 
having asked him to eat his mid-day breakfast 
with them. He was very loath to leave Marie to 
walk home without him, but he hurried off, past 
the church and the Place St. -Pierre, and down the 
Rue St. -Jean, to the turning leading to the old 
Oratorian convent, where his officer had lodgings. 

Very pleasant lodgings, in a quiet court-yard, 
surrounded on two sides by what was left of the 
(fuaint old building. The picturesque dormers, 


56 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


with their grotesquely-sculptured gables, were 
fringed below by a handsome cornice, with a broad 
band of Greek fret design, hidden in some places 
by the luxuriant vine-branches that not only cov- 
ered the whole frontage, but threw fresh green 
arms to the very summit of some of the gables. 
Just now the principal side of the building — no 
longer a convent, but occupied by a variety of 
tenants — was bathed in sunshine. Some of the 
windows, opening inwardly, showed an almost 
black darkness, framed by the intense green of 
clustering vine-leaves. 

At one of these windows sat Monsieur de 
Gragnac, enjoying a book and a cigar. He smiled 
and nodded when he saw Desire, bidding him 
come up at once. He gave him the message to 
his friend at Le Callac, and then, seeing the young 
soldier’s confused, hurried manner, he did not 
keep him long, but wished him good success in 
his new venture. 

The captain sat at the window, watching Desi- 
re as he recrossed the court-yard with the springy, 
elastic step of a man who feels that hope is lead- 
ing him to happiness. 

Monsieur de Gragnac shrugged his shoulders. 
He was thinking of Desir4. He did not know 
how striking his own dark, martial face, with its 
stern lips and piercing black eyes, looked in the 
green framework. 

‘‘ He is a very fine fellow. I have never seen 


WHAT HAPPENED THE DAY AFTER. 57 


a trace of shirking in him. It is absurd in me to 
trouble myself so much about a man whose service 
has been so short, and yet I feel quite vexed that 
he is to marry that little girl. She is pretty ; but 
that is all. I studied her face well yesterday, and 
I could see nothing in it to distinguish her from 
any other meek-looking, blue-eyed, fair-haired 
simpleton. She may be loving, but I doubt it ; 
and a cold, quiet woman is always obstinate, and 
an obstinate woman is — Poor Desire ! ” The 
captain’s shoulders were again expressive, and he 
lit a fresh cigar, and turned to his novel, by way 
of distracting his sympathies. 

Quite unconscious that he could be the object 
of any feeling but that of envy at his coming 
happiness. Desire hastened on. As he crossed the 
Place St.-Pierre, he had to make way for a melan- 
choly procession — a priest, bearing the host, hur- 
rying at his utmost speed to some dying person, 
followed by his assistants, while beside him ran 
an old woman, almost shrieking in her agony of 
mingled grief and impatience. Desire crossed 
himself devoutly, and then he shuddered ; it 
seemed like an ill omen on the threshold of his 
joy. Hastily he turned up the Hue Hotre-Dame, 
almost running till he reached the pdtisserie. 

A man came out of the shop so suddenly that, 
if he had not turned in the opposite direction, he 
and the young soldier must have run violently 
against one another. There was nothing unusual 


58 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


in seeing a customer come out of Madame Tri- 
quet’s, especially on Sunday ; but somo undefined 
feeling made Desir4 stand looking after this one, 
instead of going into the shop. He had not seen 
the man’s face, but there was something that 
roused unpleasant recollection in the bulky figure 
and assumptive walk. 

D6sire started, and then turned scarlet with 
indignation. There could be no doubt about it — 
it was Monsieur Auguste Leroux. 

“Well, Desire, mon gar^on, thou art hungry. 
Come in ; breakfast will be served in an instant.” 

La Veuve was standing in the doorway. She 
spoke with hearty good-humor. She either did not, 
or would not, see what Desire was lingering for. 

“ Has Monsieur Leroux seen Marie ? ” he said, 
passionately ; he thought the widow was cajoling 
him. 

“ Seen Marie ! what does the boy mean ? Ma 
foif art thou so jealous that a hungry man cannot 
come in and eat a galette, but thou must think 
thy rights invaded ? Ciel / thou art a veritable 
Barhe Bleue. Come and eat a g alette, too ; jeal- 
5 ousy only thrives on an empty stomach.” 

Marie received him affectionately. She seemed 
merrier than usual ; her face was deeply fiushed, 
and she was in a perfect flutter of excitement. 
Once, when her mother left the room for an in- 
stant, she contrived to whisper that she was sure 
he had been vexed with her yesterday, and she 


WHAT HAPPENED THE DAY AFTER. 59 

had been trying to think what she could have 
done to deserve it. 

“ And it has made me so sorry, Desire ! ” 

Her tender blue eyes looked very soft as she 
said this ; and her round, bloom-like cheek nestled 
itself so closely against his shoulder that Desire 
could only wonder at his happiness in having 
gained the love of such a little angel. He had 
just time to tell her so before La Yeuve came back. 

There was no repose in Madame Triquet. And 
her rapid, vivacious speech rendered this still 
more fatiguing. 

Eh Men !'*'* — she came in almost breathless 
with haste — “we shall be late at vespers. Do 
you know, my children, that unpunctuality is ruin 
both to purse and mind ? Come, come, Marie ! 
where’s thy shawl ? Come, Desire, look alive ! 
or I shall have to start by myself.” 

If Desire had believed this last threat, he 
would have sat still ; but he knew that it was 
only just half-past two, and that vespers at St.- 
Pierre began at three o’clock. The only way of 
quieting his tormentor was to affect readiness. 

Service was soon over ; as they came out of 
church, they met the young farmer Leroux face 
to face ; and, to Desire’s intense surprise, he first 
raised his hat, and then shook hands with ma- 
dame, and nodded to Marie almost familiarly. 

Leroux placed himself before them, so as al- 
most to prevent their progress ; but La Veuve 


60 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


had taken the soldier’s arm, and Desire now- 
closed it so firmly on her hand, and pushed for- 
ward so resolutely, that the farmer was obliged 
to make way. 

Desire looked quickly at Marie. 

' She was laughing, positively laughing ; but 
whether at Leroux’s discomfiture or at the frown 
on his own face, he could not feel sure. 

He was not left in doubt. 

“ Ma foi. Desire ! ” said Madame Triquet’s 
sharp, shrill voice ; “ thou forgettest that thou art 
not the only man in the world with eyes. Pretty 
girls are made to be looked at.” 

And before he could answer, Marie’s sweet 
tones whispered ; 

‘‘ Thou must not be jealous. Desire. I should 
never live happily with a jealous husband ! ” 

He was too deeply wounded to speak now. 
He knew he was not jealous ; and he told himself 
that if Marie really loved him, she would not 
have laughed, especially before her mother, at 
anything that vexed him. 

But as soon as they reached home again, and 
she said, in her pretty, winning way, how differ- 
ent next Sunday would be, and how triste every- 
thing would seem till his return, his ideas under- 
went a change. He called himself a jealous ty- 
rant, and an ill-tempered one, too ; and when the 
time came for starting homeward, it was all but 
impossible to tear himself away. 


THE FISHERMAN’S SECRET. 


61 


There were tears in Marie’s blue eyes as she 
said her last good-by ; there was a glister even in 
those of her mother. Madame Triquet kissed 
Desire on both cheeks, calling him “ her poor 
Celine’s boy ” as she did so, and then both mother 
and daughter stood on the door-step, and watched 
him down the street. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE fisherman’s SECRET. 

Desire walked along happily enough at first. 
It was not yet five o’clock ; the diligence had not 
started, but he must travel very early next morn- 
ing, and he felt it was wiser not to walk. He 
had still some matters to settle with his father 
before leaving home ; he might just as well wait 
for the diligence in the fields as in the dusty 
streets. He walked on till the open country lay 
before him, and then he turned round and looked 
at Caen. There it lay, basking in the sunshine. 
Except the bell for second vespers, sounding in 
a little village church on the right, and the cry 
of the crickets in the grass, the city lay silent, as 
if in sleep. Though only two miles distant, not a 
sound or sight disturbed the stillness ; the only 
sign of existence was the curling smoke of the 
steamer as, leaving the harbor, it took its way 


62 


THE FISHERMAN OF ATJGE. 


along tlie river ; the very plough stood still, rest- 
ing in the midst of a half-completed furrow. All 
spoke of ineffable peace. Desire’s thoughts wan- 
dered off to the new home he was contemplating. 
Ah, how full of love and peace it would be ! 
Marie should never shed the tears his mother had 
so often shed from anxiety at her husband’s long 
absences, or from sorrow at his unkindness ; as he 
thought of his mother, his spirits sank. 

Hers had been a love-marriage — at least he 
had been told so — and yet, ever since he could 
remember her, she was far oftener sad than mer- 
ry ; not complaining, her patient gentleness had 
been one of the causes of alienation between him- 
self and his father ; even as a young child he had 
felt, rather than understood, that the cold, indif- 
ferent, sometimes harsh treatment she met with 
was an ill return for her goodness. 

Could he ever grow hard and sneering as his 
father had ? And then he thought of Marie, and 
this seemed impossible ; there was but one thing 
that could make him cease to love her, and that 
would be if, after she became his wife, she did 
not return his love warmly. ‘‘ And I should never 
have thought of such a thing if Monsieur de 
Gragnac had not put it in my head. But I am 
foolish ! ” 

However foolish it might be, the thought was 
not to be easily dismissed. And then another, 
which had been kept away, came and joined com- 


THE FISHERMAN’S SECRET. 


63 


pany with it. Ought not Marie to have been 
angry with Leroux when she saw how vexed he 
himself looked ? and instead she had smiled when 
the farmer nodded to her, and then had laughed 
at Desire’s annoyance. But, no ! he would not 
be jealous. It was natural that a pretty girl 
should like to be admired. It would all come 
right when they were married ; he could speak 
seriously to her then, without fear of La Veuve’s 
interference. Marie was so naturally good and 
gentle, she would be just like his mother. Ah, if 
she had only lived to bless their marriage ! 

Here the arrival of the diligence broke up the 
stillness and his reveries, and he soon found him- 
self approaching home. He left the vehicle at 
the cross-road ; but, although he was close to the 
fisherman’s cottage, he did not enter it. It was 
not quite dark yet ; he thought he would take a 
turn along the sea-shore. He could not face his 
father with his mind full of his mother’s constant 
unhappiness. 

A few steps on, he met Mimi Fay el. The girl 
tried to pass him, but Desire placed himself in 
front of her. She looked sad, he thought, and 
just then he remembered how fond his mother 
had always been of Mimi. 

Bonsoir^ Mimi ! What do you do with 
yourself, one never sees you ? ” 

Mimi looked up at him, and she smiled. She 
had a wide mouth, but her smile showed that 


64 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


rarity in a Norman peasant, white and regular 
teeth. There was a singular shy sweetness in the 
look she now raised to Desire. 

“But you are so seldom in Auge, Monsieur 
Desir6. Ma foi / you are always on the road.” 
And then she blushed violently. 

“Well, Mimi, I think you know what I go to 
Caen for. Will you not give me your congratu- 
lations ? ” and he held out his hand. 

Mimi’s color flickered, and then she looked 
steadily in the young soldier’s face. 

“I have heard. Monsieur Desir4, and if you 
are as happy as I wish you to he, you will he con- 
tent. I am glad, too, you are going away from 
Auge. You could not he happy here, let Jacques 
say what he will. Bonsoir ! ” 

She passed on, hut the deprecating look 
which had come with her last words puzzled 
Desire. 

He walked on the sands at flrst ; the tide was 
rising fast, and he was forced to keep along the 
road beyond them, overshadowed by the dark- 
gray cliffs. His thoughts turned quickly from 
Mimi to his father. What could be the meaning 
of his strange looks and ways? Grief for his 
wife’s death, and a tinge of remorse for his con- 
duct to her, might account for his avoidance of 
human fellowship, but not for those shuddering 
starts and the livid paleness that at times so 
alarmed his son. 


THE FISHERMAN’S SECRET. 


65 


Suddenly Desire stood still, arrested by a new 
fear that dawned on him. 

Was his father mad ? 

But after a minute’s reflection, he told h im self 
no ; it was impossible. No man could be so in- 
telligent and accurate in business matters whose 
mind was sufficiently deranged to cause such 
startling emotion. 

Desire had paused just where the cliffs, or 
rather mud-hills — the soil pulverized so easily that 
they were constantly taking new forms — were 
cleft by the dry bed of what was in winter-time a 
small river. Even now, in daylight, you could 
track its course for some distance by the masses 
of rock among which it ran. 

Without thinking where he was going, ab- 
sorbed in the strange mystery that shrouded his 
father, he wandered up the cleft. Suddenly he 
stumbled over one of the rocky projections, and 
uttered a loud exclamation as he saved himself 
from falling. 

Whence he knew not, but seemingly from the 
stones close beside him, a man sprung on Desire 
with an open knife in his hand. As the indis- 
tinct light shimmered on the blade, it revealed the 
features of Martin Leli5vre. 

The recognition was mutual. Had it not been 
so. Desire’s life would have paid the forfeit of his 
paralyzing surprise. 

Not a word was spoken. The two men’s arms 


66 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


sank to their sides as they stood face to face in 
the darkness. 

At length the old man spoke. 

“ What dost thou mean by coming upon me in 
that sudden manner, like a thief or a spy ? Couldst 
thou not have staid quiet till I came in ? ” 

He began in a low, hesitating voice ; but, as 
he went on, his old bullying manner returned. 

“ I have not been home at all. I did not know 
that thou wast not in the cottage.” 

Desire scarcely knew what he said. He was 
overpowered with horror ; for if his father had 
not recognized him, he would be now a murderer. 
He felt stunned and stupefied. 

“ Saeristi ! what couldst thou be wanting up 
among the rocks ? ” Martin spoke much more 
coolly now. “ Cannot I scrape for myself a few 
mussels, but I am to be watched and pryed after ? 
The child that lifts the kettle-lid runs a chance of 
being scalded with the steam, and thou seest my 
knife and thy throat might have had a nearer ac- 
quaintance than would have been pleasant for 
either of us. Now come home to supper.” 

He wiped his knife as he spoke, thrust it into 
its leather sheath in the belt that fastened his 
trousers over his dark-blue jersey, and then led 
the way home. 

Desire followed silently. AYhat was his fa- 
ther doing in that lonely place? for, as to the 
story of the mussels, they were so abundant on 


THE FISHERMAN’S SECRET. 


61 


the small rocks near the cottage, that it was 
scarcely likely Martin would have gone so far to 
seek them. Why should he he so anxious not to 
be followed or watched ? 

Try as D4sire would to stifle it, a fearful solu- 
tion seemed to he offered to his doubts about his 
father. It was said in Caen that there were fish- 
ermen along that rocky coast who robbed and 
murdered shipwrecked sailors. Was Martin one 
of these ? Would he have been so ready to take 
life without even the provocation of self-defense ? 
If — but he could not face the “if” — ^he was his 
father, what right had a child to judge a parent ? 
But the longer he pondered over what had hap- 
pened, the more conscious he became that the 
feeling of his father’s knife at his throat had 
worked a strange revolution in him ; the shrink- 
ing of former years was now almost loathing ; and 
when the fisherman retired into the inner room, 
where the two beds were. Desire felt that nothing 
could induce him to pass the night in the same 
chamber with his father. 

His first resolve was to keep awake, and think 
over this strange meeting. Spite of his previous 
reasoning, the belief in Martin’s insanity seemed 
forced on him ; it was' the only safe solution of 
his strange conduct. The hours rolled on ; the 
heavy breathing from the next room told how 
soundly Martin was sleeping. 

Desire’s head drooped forward, his body be- 


08 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


gan to sway gently to and fro, and finally nearly 
overbalanced itself, for there was no back to the 
settle on which he sat. The fatigue and excite- 
ment of the two previous days began to call for 
reparation. He got up mechanically, fiung a 
rough pilot-coat on the ground, and lay down on 
it, almost asleep before he reached it. 

It seemed to him that he had scarcely been 
asleep five minutes, when he found himself at 
once broad awake, with all his senses on the alert ; 
there was none of the twilight-like drowsiness 
that usually prevents a whole knowledge of one’s 
surroundings ; it was more like the work of some 
invisible agency ; he was shuddering from head to 
foot, his hair lifted from his forehead, and yet he 
had not stirred. 

The fire was out, and the room on that side lay 
in complete darkness. Without moving even so 
much as to raise himself on his elbow. Desire 
glanced instinctively at the other side, where the 
door was that divided him from the sleeper. 

The sleeper !— he listened intently ; the deep 
breathing had ceased ; and, while he still waited 
for it, telling himself that his hearing had not yet 
fully awakened, there came the scrape of a lucifer- 
match, and a faint glimmer of light under the 
door of the inner room. Before D6sire could 
move, it was gently opened, and the fisherman 
stood on the threshold. 

For a moment* the soldier debated with him- 


THE FISHERMAN’S SECRET. 


69 


8elf whether he should show consciousness of what 
was happening ; and then, if his father really 
were mad, would not this second intrusion into 
what was evidently some mystery, perhaps excite 
him even more violently than the first had done ? 

Desire was brave ; but his father’s knife had 
been once raised against him that evening, and he 
could scarcely keep his arm from trying to shield 
his throat as the fisherman stealthily advanced. 
But Martin Leli^vre’s practised eyes would have 
detected the slightest movement ; and when De- 
sire saw him holding the lamp so as to examine 
his face closely, he no longer dared watch him 
through his half-closed eyelids, lest the quivering 
of the lashes should betray him. 

The fisherman seemed satisfied. 

He passed stealthily on to the outer door, 
opened it gently, and then closed and locked it 
after him, leaving the lamp burning in the angle 
farthest from Desire, behind the projecting fire- 
place. 

The young man had not calculated on this im- 
prisonment ; he had meant to follow his father 
cautiously ; by doing so he might solve those 
terrible doubts, and be able to decide how to act, 
for it seemed to him that Martin had become quite 
unfit to be left unwatched. He could not get out 
by either of the windows. During his absence in 
Italy, the fisherman had fixed iron bars across 
both, so close together that even a child could not 


70 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


have squeezed its way in or out ; and when his 
son had inquired the reason of this, he had been 
told rudely to mind his own matters. 

There was nothing to do but to wait ; but he 
could not lie there inactive. He sprung up, and 
paced up and down the cottage. What might be 
happening? What could his father have been 
doing with a knife at that time of night ? and 
why had he been so fearful of discovery ? What 
might be happening now ? 

Desir4 had essentially a man’s mind, without 
any of the fertile flights and witch -like divi- 
nation which so often lead a woman, as if by in- 
stinct, to the truth. He could only puzzle over 
his own questions. 

It seemed hours to him before his father re- 
turned ; the wind had risen in the night, and the 
voice of the waves, as they struggled against it, 
completely mufiled the sound of approaching foot- 
steps. Fortunately, the lock of the door was 
rusty, and the key turned slowly, or Desire would 
not have had time to stretch himself again on the 
floor and feign slumber. 

When his father went out, he was muffled in 
an old boat-cloak, but certainly he was empty- 
handed, for he had changed the lamp from one 
hand to another, in order to look at his son ; now 
he seemed staggering with the weight of what he 
carried. 

He set his burden down on the kitchen -table, 


THE FISHERMAN’S SECRET. 


71 


and then, stealing softly to where he had placed 
the lamp, he raised it, and held it close to the 
young man’s eyes. 

But D4sire had had time for recollection ; not 
an eyelash stirred ; he was to all appearance sound 
asleep. The old man turned to the table, and 
carried part of his burden into the inner room. 

In a few moments he came back, his face was 
turned away from Desire, so that the young man 
could watch wiAout fear of discovery, still main- 
taining the regular breathing of a deep sleeper. 
His father approached the table again, and seemed 
to lift whatever it was that he had left upon it 
with difficulty. 

The lamp was almost burnt out, and, although 
he strained his sight to the utmost, the young sol- 
dier could not see what it was that Martin carried 
so careftilly into the inner room. 

But he gave a hasty guess — his mind felt ea- 
sier now ; doubtless his father had some private 
hoard of which he knew nothing, and he had 
brought it for safety to the cottage. This would 
account for the iron bars, his terror at Desire’s 
sudden appearance — for everything, in fact, that 
had so disturbed his son. 

Desire felt relieved, almost thankful ; and 
the sudden lull of the intense strain he had been 
putting on all outward movement soon brought 
back the sound sleep from which he had been so 
strangely awakened. 


72 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


CHAPTER VII. 
maeie’s fiest lettee. 

When Desire roused next morning, his father 
was already heating their soup over the fire. 

“ Thou hadst best bestir thyself or thou wilt 
miss the diligence, unless maybe thou goest to 
Le Callac on thy feet.” 

He spoke roughly, and Desire did not answer ; 
his luggage was soon ready ; but when he went 
into the inner room for some of his belongings 
left there, the old man followed him, and stood in 
the door- way, watching his movements. 

There was nothing unusual to be seen in the 
room, and but for this suspicious action Desire 
would have been tempted to think he had dreamed. 
However, there was no time for thought ; it was 
a relief to be so hurried. His father followed 
him out of the cottage, and they reached the 
cross-road just as the diligence did. Desire could 
only wave a hasty adieu, and spring up into the 
interior. 

A fortnight passed away at Le Callac very 
pleasantly for Desire, so far as his master and his 
outward life went. He found himself in a far 
more beautiful country than any he had seen near 
Caen. Instead of the level meadows, fringed with 
tall poplars, and often partially submerged from 


MARIE’S FIRST LETTER. 


73 


tlie overflow of the Orne or the canal, the land 
round Chateau Callac was far more picturesque. 
Gentle hills, and sloping valleys clothed in ver- 
dure — for there was no visible corn-land — and 
planted with fruit-trees of all sorts, realizing, now 
that their rich harvest hung ripe and luxuriant, 
the jeweled trees of Aladdin’s cave ; ruddy and 
rosy apples, golden apricots, crimsoned peaches, 
mingled with the darker splendor of the royal pur- 
ple plums. 

Houses were to he found at distant intervals ; 
there were no poor cottages in this Eden of plenty, 
but comfortable farmsteads, each sheltering the 
few assistants necessary to herd the cattle and 
horses which fed on the bright grass of the or- 
chards. 

On the domain of the seigneur to whom Desire 
now belonged were a few small, thatched cottages, 
one of which was to be his future home, and all 
his leisure was spent in trying to form a garden 
for Marie out of the orchard which surrounded it. 
He had made friends with the gardener, and had 
begged sundry roots from him, and two young 
apricot trees to plant on each side of the cottage 
door. He was busy digging holes in readiness for 
these trees when the letter-carrier passed on his 
way up to the chdteau. 

Desire cleared the gate of his little domain at 
a bound. The only drawback to his happiness at 
Callac had been Marie’s silence. He knew she 


74 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


could write easily, and he, poor fellow, had man- 
aged already to scrawl her three very loving letters. 

He soon overtook the postman. Yes, there 
was a letter for Monsieur Leli^vre ; was he quite 
sure that he was the right person ? Time seemed 
so long to Desire while the postman was fumbling 
in his wallet. 

Here it was at last. He jumped over the gate 
again, and flung himself down on the grass, just 
in front of his cottage — Marie’s cottage soon. 

The letter felt thick ; it was a long one then, 
to make up for lost time. He examined the su- 
perscription lovingly ; the handwriting was a 
woman’s, but he did not think it was Marie’s. 

He opened it with the careful manner of a man 
little troubled with correspondents. 

There were two inclosures. 

He looked at the signature of the first ; it was 
Triquet-Coulard. Ah ! and the other was from 
Marie. He should read that! 

He opened it, and his eager, expectant look 
clouded. There were but two or three lines of 
writing, beginning “ Monsieur,” and signed “ Ma- 
rie.” 

He read them over several times before he 
could take in their sense. Was he stupefied, or 
was it really incomprehensible ? Presently he laid 
down Marie’s letter, and turned despairingly to 
Madame Triquet’s, as if to find a key to the mys- 
tery. 


MARIE’S FIRST LETTER. 


75 


Marie’s letter had only told him that she felt 
he was not likely to make her happy, and that, 
therefore, she renounced the^ honor of being his 
wife. This was so unexpected, so utterly at vari- 
ance with his belief in his future wife’s truth and 
constancy, that it had utterly bewildered him ; 
but as he read La Veuve’s letter, indignation ab- 
sorbed every other feeling. She confirmed Marie’s 
sentence, and told Desire that there was no use in 
making any fuss or opposition, as her daughter de- 
cidedly preferred another person, and she was not 
a mother likely to force her only child’s inclina- 
tions — “to make what should be a blessing a 
curse.” 

He crushed the letter in his hand, and then 
trampled it into the ground. 

“ The old hypocrite ! ” he exclaimed ; “ I see 
it all, and it has been all her doing. I know Ma- 
rie has been made to write that letter against her 
will. Poor little thing ! she is constrained. What 
do I know ? ill-treated perhaps ! ” 

Did he say this to himself because the tor- 
menting doubts about her want of love, which had 
been less audible since he left Caen, now rose and 
clamored loudly ? It may have been so ; but it 
was also part of his nature that he would believe 
the best of her that was possible. 

There was no time to be wasted in guessing 
the meaning of this riddle ; he must know the 
truth at once. With soldierly neatness he shov- 


76 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


eled the earth hack again into the two holes he 
had dug, that the vine which covered the porched 
door-way might not suffer from the exposure, re- 
placed his spade in the little out-house, and then 
took his way up to the chdteau. 

He must tell his master that a great trouble 
threatened him : must happen, indeed, if he did 
not at once return to Caen. 

And if leave of absence were refused him — ^bah! 
where was the use of meeting evil on the road ? it 
would be granted. At the worst, he could throw 
up this new employment ; for, if he lost Marie, of 
what value was it ? 

But he was not so tried. He met the head- 
gardener of Le Callac on his way. The gardener 
had heard from D4sire of his approaching mar- 
riage; and without asking questions, with the ready 
tact of a Frenchman, he understood what this 
trouble the young man told him of threatened. 
He at once undertook to fill Desire’s post in his 
two days’- absence, supposing the master should 
grant leave. 

There was no diligence till next morning ; and 
after his interview with his master was over, the 
day did indeed seem long to Desire. He had too 
much time for thought now. He went over again 
and again the two last days with Marie. Yes, lie 
knew he had been unreasonable and exacting ; but 
he could explain it all away, and she would for- 
give him. 


MARIE’S FIRST LETTER. 


77 


It was her mother’s fault ; if she had not become 
so singularly irritating all would have gone well ; 
and then he remembered with despair that when 
he saw Marie all his explanations and excuses must 
be made in her mother’s presence. Ah ! — he 
ground his teeth as he thought this — if Madame 
Triquet had her deserts she would have been 
ducked in the river long ago. 

At first the mention in the letter of Marie’s 
preference for another person had seemed to him 
an idle falsehood, merely invented to make him 
break off the marriage in disgust ; hut as he re- 
flected on the widow’s late rudeness, he began to 
see that there was something hidden under it all. 
He remembered the regatta, and then, on Sun- 
day, the sudden exit of Auguste Leroux from the 
shop ! 

He saw it all now. When first he had asked 
Marie in marriage, the old miser, Leroux, was still 
alive ; the son was a mere nobody, stinted in every 
way, and doubtless the portion that Martin Leli^- 
vre had offered with his son had tempted La Veuve. 
It was Leroux’s new fortune that had induced Ma- 
dame Triquet to try to secure so rich a husband 
for Marie, and she had taken advantage of Desire’s 
absence to bring it about. But he would thwart 
her, the villainous intriguer ! He strode up and 
down his bedroom half the night, rehearsing the 
reproaches by which he would show Marie’s mother 
the impossibility of retracting her solemn pledge. 


78 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


without manifesting herself a perjured woman in 
the eyes of her neighbors. 

The idea of Marie, sacrificed -to a selfish cox- 
comb like Leroux, drove him almost frantic. But 
it . was a relief to have thought of him ; it was im- 
possible that Marie could love such an upstart, 
such a self-sufficient idiot — she was not a free 
agent, poor child ! Her mother, doubtless, intend- 
ed the marriage, and hoped by Desire’s continued 
absence to bring it to pass. 

“Yes, yes ! I see her whole game, now, the 
old witch ! ” he said, throwing himself at last on 
his bed, worn out with doubt and anxiety. “ She 
knows my proud temper, and she thought that I 
should be too much huffed to trouble my head 
about her for a bit, and that she would make the 
best use of her time ; but, gave d votes, La Veuve, 
I’m not going to dig up sand-eels for others to bag. 
I’m too old a fisherman to haul in an empty net ! 
We shall see which wins yet, you or I, Madame 
Triquet-Coulard ! ” 

Desire had to walk some distance next morn- 
ing to meet the diligence / but he was ready, wait- 
ing for it, long before it arrived. It was the best 
part of a day’s journey to Caen ; across country 
the distance could not have exceeded thirty miles ; 
but, from the circuitous route the diligetice took 
along the coast, stopping either at or near each 
one of the fishing and bathing villages that stud 
the Herman coast from the mouth of the Orne to 
Ilonfleur, it was really much longer. 


MARIE’S FIRST LETTER. 


70 


At another time these stoppages and the jokes 
consequent on the arrival of new passengers would 
have amused Desire, for he was always merry and 
frank-hearted with strangers — ^ready to fraternize 
with them with the ease of a Frenchman of his 
class. Now every delay was annoying and wea- 
risome. He had decided to go straight on to Caen, 
and learn his fate that afternoon. He should pass 
close by Auge ; but he should not stop there if he 
made all right again between himself and Marie. 
Why need his father know there had ever been 
any disagreement ? 

The diligence was by this time crowded with 
passengers, all bound for Caen — a very incongru- 
ous medley, from the squire or small seigneur in 
the coupe to a country-girl in the interior going 
into town-service for the first time in her life. 
Though her eyes were still red with crying, she 
munched away with a seemingly hearty and unap- 
peasable appetite at a long, dark-colored loaf, 
which she kept under one arm, flavoring it by an 
occasional bite at one of a bunch of rosy onions 
that peeped from under her cloak. 

Desire had just congratulated himself that 
there could be no more stoppages, when a shrill 
voice from the roadside demanded a place in the 
name of mis^ricorde et cinq sotcs / 

“ There is no place,” said Desire, rather sav- 
agely, as the conducteur opened the door, ‘‘ and 
you know it ! You will be very late as it is, 
without stopping any more.” 


80 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


“Pardon, monsieur.” And then the conduc- 
teur pointed out to the servant-girl and a soeur 
who sat beside her that, if they squeezed a little, 
the poor woman who was so urgent for a place 
could he admitted. 

“ She is very tired,” he said ; “ and if we don’t 
take her up, she says she’ll not reach her home to- 
night.” 

la pav^ore bonne mire ! ” from the onion- 
eating maid, and a bright smile from the soeur, as 
each drew her petticoats into the smallest space, 
and Desire’s objections were silenced. 

A loud-voiced, broad-faced, good-natured wom- 
an squeezed herself in between them. 

“ Servante, mamzelle ; et mille pardons^ ma rl- 
verende / ” and then she looked smilingly across 
at Desire. 

“ JShf mon beau monsieur ! but it was rather 
hard of you, was it not, to wish to make a poor 
widow, who has been working all day for the lit- 
tle girl at home, trudge along the stony, dusty 
road to Caen ? — ^to Caen ! mafoi, if it were only 
to Caen ! Now I wager that you will never guess 
how much farther I have yet to go this night.” 

She had kept her eyes fixed on Desire, and had 
quickly noted his abstraction ; but, woman-like, 
this only strengthened her inclination to talk to 
him. 

“ Monsieur is militaire f ” she said, deferential- 
ly. He nodded. 


MARIE’S FIRST LETTER. 


81 


“ Ah, yes ! I should have known it at once. 
Monsieur has a noble figure militaire / but I re- 
member him now, I saw him enter Caen the day 
the troops did. And I, too, monsieur, am of the 
army ; I am widow of a corporal of the line. 
Ah, the good man he was to me ! only, you see ” 
— she wiped her eyes rapidly with the only vacant 
corner of her blue apron, the rest being tied up in 
a bundle — “ he never spent more than a few weeks 
with me ; but I loved him all the same, and for 
him I love all soldiers, mon beau g argon ! And 
you are in trouble — I know it, I see it. Repose 
your confidence in me as in a mother ; the soldiers 
call me La M^re Chuquet.” 

She paused for an instant — not from want of 
breath or words, both seemed as inexhaustible as 
those of the Barber with many brothers, but to 
give him an opportunity of answering. He only 
smiled, by way of keeping ^own his impatience. 

ga ! I understand,” his tormentor went 
on, “ we are too public ; we will choose another 
moment. If you are making a stay at Caen, we 
.will meet again, my soldier. And all this time I 
have never told you, and especially these good la- 
dies ” — she nodded to each of her neighbors, who 
seemed far more amused than Desire— ‘‘ where I 
have to go this night, and why I am so thankful 
to the bon Dieu to have been spared the toilsome 
journey on this stony road. Ah, mais oui ! ” — 
with a strong emphasis on the second word — 
6 


82 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


“ perhaps you would not believe it, to hear how 
well I speak, but I am only a poor field-hand, and 
I have to live at La Maladrerie, for I work on the 
fields of Monsieur Leroux, the rich farmer of Ar- 
daine.” 

Desire started ; the name aroused him from a 
deep reverie. 

The sharp-witted woman saw that he was lis- 
tening at last. 

“A'A, mon Dieu\ you know Monsieur Au- 
guste ? He is a fine gentleman, is he not ? and 
he is going to marry a pretty wife.” 

Desire felt inclined to stifle her before ; but 
now he listened eagerly and impatiently while 
she explained to the smiling maid that Monsieur 
Leroux owned another farm, Varentin, where she 
had been working for the last three days, and 
whence she was now returning. 

“ And I am glad to come back,” she went on, 
“ not only to embrace my little Elise, but because 
I would not, for all in the world, miss Monsieur 
Auguste’s wedding. His wife will not have much 
of a dowry, they say — only her looks. She is 
the daughter of old Triquet, the pdtissier of the 
Rue Hotre-Dama Aha, monsieur, you like to 
hear of pretty girls, do you? You look as ex- 
cited as an old monsieur I met yesterday, to whom 
I told the news. Ah, pa ! how glad I am to feel 
the jolt of the stones ! and there is the flhche of 
St.-Pierre, and here we are — arrived. Bonsoir, 


CONVINCED. 


83 


monsieur et dames. I have still some hours to 
spend in Caen, and so you will let me pass out 
first.” 

She had jumped down into the street before 
D4sire had recovered himself. 

Was it real, this which he had been listening 
to, or only idle chatter ? And this woman had 
been three days away from Caen since she had 
heard the news ; the marriage must have been de- 
cided before Marie wrote. His heart swelled 
with indignation at her treachery ; but no ! he 
Avould not prejudge her ; she might be her moth- 
er’s unwilling victim. Her own lips should de- 
cide his opinion. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

CONVINCED. 

“ Will it convince you if you hear from Ma- 
rie herself that she prefers Auguste Leroux ? ” 
Madame Triquet spoke in very subdued ac- 
cents. She had been taken by surprise by De- 
sire’s sudden appearance ; and his vehement re- 
proaches and stern refusal to believe that Marie 
had any share in what he told her was a base con- 
spiracy against him, had for the time both* cowed 
and terrified her. She valued her good name as 
much as money, and it was not pleasant to hear 
Desire threaten to proclaim her through Caen as 


84 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


a perjured woman who had entered into a fresh 
contract with one suitor before breaking off with 
the other. 

When first he entered the shop, demanding to 
see Marie, Madame Triquet contemptuously re- 
fused him ; now it seemed wiser to conciliate him. 

“ Yes, I will be satisfied,” he said, sternly, 
then fixing his eyes on the widow till she felt 
made of glass, and that he was looking through 
her, ‘‘ if I see her alone, and hear her speak her 
own words — not yours, madame — ” 

La Veuve wrung her hands. It was impossi- 
ble ; she was going to add. Monsieur Leroux 
would not like it, but Desire’s glance kept her in 
check. 

“I shall not move from here, madame,” he 
said, gravely, “ till I have spoken to Marie alone.” 

The widow saw that he was determined, and 
she yielded sooner than he expected. It was per- 
haps well to keep guard in the shop in case of 
Leroux’s sudden appearance. 

How wonderfully strange to Desire the famil- 
iar place had grown in two short weeks ! It 
seemed as if Marie must have grown strange, too ; 
but no ! the inner door of the little parlor stood 
open, and there she was coming down the narrow 
stairs, as fresh, as bright as ever." 

Desire did not speak till Madame Triquet had 
passed on into the shop, then he deliberately 
closed the door after her, and turned to Marie. 


CONVINCED. 


85 


“ Marie, what is all this ? ” He went up to 
her and took her hand gently. 

“ Oh, mon Dieu, Desire, I am frightened ! 
My mother says you are so angry with me ; is it 
true ? ” She began to cry. 

‘‘Is there any reason why I should be angry 
with thee, Marie ? ” 

He spoke kindly and quietly, but there was a 
wounded tone in his voice ; for there was some- 
thing changed in her manner after all, and she 
pertinaciously avoided looking him in the face. 

“ Ah, but that is it. Desire Leli^vre ; you are 
always so wise and so serious I am always afraid 
of making you angry, and yet I don’t know how, 
I’m sure. Oh, I am very unhappy.” 

She began to cry again, sobbing violently, and 
covering her face with her hands. 

Desire seemed to himself to be in a dream. 
What did it all mean ? Marie had never behaved 
in this way before. Had La Yeuve spoken the 
truth ? And then he remembered that this was 
doubtless the result of her mother’s tutoring, and 
he resolved to make her speak her own senti- 
ments. 

“God knows, darling Marie” — he tried to 
draw her hands away from her face — “how ar- 
dently I long to make thy happiness, and how 
grieved I am if I am the cause of thy tears ; but 
there is some mistake between us ; tell me what 
it is, my own Marie, tell me ” — he tried to draw 


86 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


her toward him, but she shook her head — ‘Hell 
me first why thou wrotest that letter ? ” 

Marie felt ill-used and sulky. She had at first 
refused to come down to see Desire ; but La Veuve 
had told her exactly what to do and say, and it 
had seemed so easy, that at length she ventured. 
She was to take a high hand, stating her griev- 
ances and reasons for breaking with him. She 
was on no account to cry. 

La Veuve had shrewdly calculated that cold 
self-possession would convince the young man more 
effectually than any reasoning ; but she had not 
also calculated on the influence Desire still pos- 
sessed over Marie. So far as she understood the 
meaning of the word love, the shallow-hearted 
girl had loved him, and now the first glimpses of 
his frank, manly face put to flight all her ready- 
prepared speeches. At the same time she was 
so discomfited by her own want of self-control, 
that she was angry with herself and all around 
her. 

Instead of answering Desire’s last question, she 
hung down her head and sobbed again. 

“ Come, Marie,” said Desire, “ let us be friends 
again — as if nothing had happened between us ! 
I promise never to vex thee again, dear child, and 
thou wilt forget that cruel letter to me ! ” 

His voice was becoming agitated with repressed 
tenderness, for he wished to win her gently till 
she became calmer. Marie’s quick ear heard his 


CONVINCED. 


87 


changed tone — she saw her regained power — and 
her sobs ceased. 

“ Then you love me still, after all ? ” she said, 
poutingly. 

Desire’s answer was more in gesture than 
words, but she raised her hand warningly between 
them. 

“We can still be friends ” — this was a bit of 
her mother’s lesson, and she went on glibly — “ but. 
Monsieur Lelievre, we cannot be anything more 
to each other ! ” 

She spoke simply, in her usual sweet voice. A 
horrible feeling of disappointment, and of having 
been duped, came over Desire. 

It suddenly seemed to him that the girl who 
spoke was the Marie he had always known, and 
that the pettish, sulky child of five minutes ago 
was the true daughter of Madame Triquet. Had 
she never loved him at all ? Had all been a sweet- 
spoken deceit ? 

The blood rushed to his temples, and, then re- 
treating, left him so death-like in color — even to 
his firmly-compressed lips — that Marie felt strange- 
ly frightened. She stood looking at him as if she 
were spell-bound. 

“ Is this your own choice, or has any one else 
forced it upon you ? ” 

Under his stern eyes she dared not tell the 
falsehood she had been taught. 

“My mother showed me,” she almost whis- 


88 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


pered, “ we — we were not suited ; and then — and 
besides — ” 

She left off, either unable to go on, or because 
she hoped she had said enough. 

Spite of the dire conviction at his heart, he 
made one more effort to regain her. 

‘‘ O Marie ! and thou wilt cast me off without 
giving me a hearing — without telling me how it 
is that I am unsuited to be thy husband ? Marie, 
there is time still — tell me ! ” 

One would have thought the thrilling tones of 
his voice must have moved her ; but, alas! no. His 
words had supplied the link to the next sentence 
she had been taught, and she was too eager to get 
through her task creditably to be turned aside. 
Besides, her mother’s last whisper — ‘‘A real 
cashmere — silk dresses — a visit to Paris, perhaps, 
who knows, my child ? ” — sounded louder still than 
the throb of Desire’s voice against her heart- 
strings. 

“It is I, Desir6, who am more unsuited to be 
your wife than you to be my husband. I don’t 
complain of you unless you scold me.” She spoke 
more earnestly, for she had meant to have begun 
thus ; and it was a part in which her heart really 
was interested. She did not want to lose his good 
opinion altogether. “ I had scarcely ever spoken 
to any man till I saw you ; and I was so young, 
and you asked me so soon after you came back, 
and I liked you, and so I said yes. But I’m sure 


MIMI. 


89 


I could not be happy with a poor man. There are 
things I wish for more than a husband, Desire, 
and you could not give me these. And — ” 

“ And Auguste Leroux can ! ” — he grasped her 
arm so firmly that she could not wrest it from 
him, although she tried to turn away and hide her 
face. Ah, what other confirmation did he want ? 
He was answered. He paused. 

‘‘Marie,” he said at last, hoarsely, “I can’t re- 
proach you. If I told you what is in my heart — 
about your conduct — I should make you too un- 
happy. And I have loved you — remember that — 
so well, Marie ” — ^he spoke very bitterly — “ that 
I can never love woman again — for if you are so 
false, what are the rest ? ” 

He dropped her arm, and then passed through 
the shop without taking any notice of La Veuve. 
Madame Triquet was not prepared for his sudden 
exit, or she would, perhaps, have been a little far- 
ther from the parlor door. 


CHAPTER IX. 

MIMI. 

Mimi Fayel was sitting in her brother’s cot- 
tage at Auge ; the black tulle veil she had been 
sprigging so deftly lay in her lap ; her hands were 
idle, and her eyes were looking, not at her work. 


90 


THE FISHERMAN AT AUGE. 


but were bent on the distant expanse of sea that 
showed through the open door-way. 

Mimi had learned her own secret since Desire’s 
return from Italy. She knew now that the vague 
unrest and discontent that had possessed her since 
Madame Lelievre’s death were signs and tokens of 
love. The first sight of the young soldier had 
told her this. 

Mimi had grown very thin and pale lately. 
She had been able to look frankly into her old 
playmate’s face and to congratulate him on his hap- 
piness, and she had done this sincerely ; for Minii 
could not have spoken an untrue word. But the 
bitter struggles, the sharp heart-wrenches of ago- 
ny that had come first, were all hidden away in 
the young girl’s heart, only betrayed outwardly by 
scalding tears, as she knelt in her little bedroom 
before the rude crucifix Desire’s mother had given 
her years ago. 

But Mimi’s was not a selfish love. “ If Desire 
is happy, I must be happy, too,” she said, “ or I 
am no better than the wicked woman in the Bre- 
ton tale, who ate her son’s heart because he loved 
his wife better than his mother. It is all very 
well of Jacques to mock at Marie Triquet ; but 
she must be good as well as pretty, or Desire 
would not love her.” 

Poor, faithful Mimi ! Her idol could not do 
wrong in her eyes. 

Yesterday Jacques Fayel had brought home 


MIMI. 


91 


the news that Marie had broken her engagement 
with Desire, and was promised to Auguste Le- 
roux. 

This news had kindled Mimi’s anger. But her 
heart was large small feelings did not seem at 
home there. All she thought of now was Desire’s 
sorrow. As yet, of course, he knew nothing, for 
Le Callac seemed to Mimi a distant country. And 
then, as her work fell from her hands, and she sat 
thinking, searching with her tired eyes the far-dis- 
tant, shadowy cloud-line that melted into the sea, 
an idea presented itself — a way of escape from 
this sorrow for Desire. 

Marie was very young — two years younger 
than she was herself. Might it not be possible 
that the girl had been over-persuaded by her 
mother, and, in Desire’s absence, had not suf- 
ficiently valued the treasure she was yielding up ? 
If any friend of Desire’s pleaded for him, would 
not Marie listen ? 

And strong temptation whispered to Mimi, 
“No, it is best as it is. If she does not value 
him, she could never make him happy.” And a 
look of joyous hope broke forth on the pale, truth- 
ful face. 

Mimi rose up and laid aside her work. It 
seemed to her she must fling away this sudden 
joy with all her strength, or it would master her 
and make her wicked. 

She crossed herself devoutly, and then she 


92 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


knelt down and prayed for Marie, for Desire, and 
for herself. 

She rose up paler than ever, hut with a settled 
look on her face. 

‘‘ I will go to Caen,” she said. “ I have often 
wished to see Marie Triquet. I will see her, too, 
when her mother is not by, and I will make her 
promise to keep true to Desire. She must tell him 
what has happened with Auguste Leroux, of course. 
She must not keep a secret from her husband — ^but 
Desire need not know it till he returns from Le 
Callac ; it would be too cruel if he learned it 
there.” 

She went to the armoire, got out her Sunday 
cap — only distinguished by a finer lace and an 
embroidered head-band, for Mimi was not rich 
enough to wear a hourgeoise cap : she was only a 
peasant, though, thanks to Monsieur le Cure of 
St.-Julier, the nearest parish to Auge, she was a 
fair scholar. 

Her cap-strings were not tied when a shadow 
darkened the door- way — the shadow of a rough, 
square-shouldered fisherman, with a huge sausage 
under one arm. 

“ Eh Men, Mimi ! Where art thou off to in 
such fine feathers ? ” 

Mimi blushed. She knew that her brother 
did. not suspect her love for his friend, and she 
could confess her errand. 

“I am going to Caen, Jacques.” 


MIML 


93 


The fisherman’s face clouded. 

“ What gad-abouts you women are ! Women 
— I believe I’m tired of the lot of you ! ” He 
stood in the door- way, his sausage still under his 
arm. It seemed as if his words had been pent in 
some time, they came tumbling out so fast. 
‘‘ Whom do you think I saw in Caen this after- 
noon ? — maybe he is there now.” 

Mimi knew by instinct, but she asked who it 
was. 

“ Dame ! it was Desire Leli^vre ; and I saw 
him going in at the door of the old Triquet, the 
old traitress. I never thought that little pink- 
faced chit Marie a worthy wife for my friend ; 
and now that he should reap mortification from 
such a crooked choice ! It is too much ; ma 
foi! it is not to be borne. And here am I, 
tired, hungry — what do I say ? — with my heart 
pierced at the thought of my comrade’s trouble, 
and I find my sister going out to take her amuse- 
ment ! ” 

He strode into the room, his heavy sabots 
clattering on the brick floor, and seated himself 
with his back toward Mimi. 

She stood a minute, and then she unfastened 
her pretty head-band, loosened the tape-strings 
which drew her cap into a close-fitting shape, 
and replaced it in its paper wrapping in the ar- 
moire. 

From a cupboard in the wall she brought out 


94 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


a long, dark-colored loaf and a jug of cider, and 
set them on the round table in the centre of the 
cottage. 

She tried to busy herself, but her heart was 
aching sorely. It was all over, then ; she was too 
late to help Desire. 

“ Why, what is this ? ” said Jacques Fay el. 
“Why, Mimi, thou art as changeable as Marie 
Triquet ! A minute ago thou wast decked out 
for a junketing, and now — ” 

she interrupted, “ I am not quite so 
bad as thou thoughtest, Jacques. I must see thee 
eat. Come ! where is the sausage ? ” 

Jacques patted her hand and said, half to him- 
self, half to her, that she was a good girl, worth 
six Marie Triquets — ^but the words made his sister 
glad to turn away. 

When he had ended his meal, he smoked for 
some time in silence, while Mimi cleared away the 
fragments, and went back to her work. 

“Mimi,” said Jacques Fayel, suddenly, “hast 
thou seen Martin Lelievre to-day ? ” 

“ No, I have not seen him ; but that is nothing 
unusual.” 

Her brother got up and came close to her. 

“ But I have not seen him for two days ; and 
Desire has written to me to ask if his father is 
well, and if he goes out fishing as usual. Martin 
has hardly been out since Desire went away, and 
no one knows what ails him. Ma foi, Mimi ! 


MIMI. 


95 


*> 


when I last saw him there was a look on his face 
I did not like to see there.” 

“ But I also do not like the look on the face 
of Martin Leli^vre,” said Mimi. 

‘‘ But it was not a look thou hast seen. It was 
the look, I tell thee, of a man possessed by Satan, 
or of a madman. I must see him, or what account 
can I render to Desir4 ? ” 

He went out, hut he came back almost di- 
rectly. 

“ Mimi,” he said, hurriedly, ‘‘ thou wast always 
wiser than I am ; thou must help me now. Mar- 
tin is mad ; his door is locked — it always is ; I 
looked through the window ; he is not in the cot- 
tage, but there is a disorder that only a madman 
could create.” 

And he described to her the wild chaos he had 
perceived through the window. 

Mimi shook her head. 

‘‘Perhaps Desire will come home, Jacques ; it 
seems to me we can only watch for Martin, and 
when he does come home we must make sure that 
he has no knife or weapon within his reach.” 

So the brother and sister sat waiting till the 
moon rose and glittered over the broad sea. 


96 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


CHAPTER X. 

AT THE CALVAIRE OF ST. -PIERRE. 

Out of the house — ^mechanically taking his 
way along the street — ^blind, senseless to external 
things, Desire hurried on till he found himself 
some distance from the town, free from all ob- 
serving eyes, at the outskirts of the table-land 
high above St. -Pierre. 

Alone there, with the free air blowing round 
him on all sides, he was released from the strong 
power that had hitherto impelled him, and he fell 
face downward on the earth. 

How he wrestled with his agony! It seemed 
to have almost wrenched out his manhood with 
his love, for burning tears forced themselves from 
his eyes, not tears falling easily and relieving the 
overcharged heart that sends them, but single 
drops, scorching the eyes that shed them, as 
memory, awakened from the paralyzing effect of 
Marie’s averted face, stabbed each word she had 
uttered deeper. 

He made no moan, no outward sound of the 
utter despair that was slowly mastering him. 

Why is it that natures like Desire’s, tender, 
true, and brave, are so often those whose rever- 
ence for women is early destroyed by some such 
blight as this — a blight which eats into the bud 


AT THE CALVAIRE OF ST.-PIERRE. 


97 


of their future life, jaundicing its fair young 
leaves with the spirit of scorn and mistrust, with 
thorough unbelief in that paradise of happiness 
which a true wife can make of a man’s life ? 

While he lay there, the sun was setting in broad 
belts of gold and crimson over the distant city 
stretched out below — the crimson fast changing 
into purple* lines that mingled with the long 
range of gray hills in the horizon. Golden light 
still gathered on the river, winding among the 
poplar-fringed fields of the middle distance, and 
on the vanes of some of the churches of the nearer 
city, guiding the eye from the superb burial-place 
of William the Conqueror to that of his queen, 
Matilda, at the opposite extremity of the town. 
But each moment was dimming light in the west ; 
and as the sun sank slowly and reluctantly into 
the gray bank of clouds behind Caen, he seemed 
reflected on the rosy face of the rising moon, 
aflame with her harvest glories. 

Faintly at that distance came the chorus of 
bells, sounding the Angelus, swelling louder and 
louder as each church in turn lent voice to the 
universal clangor that told the death-hour of 
another day. 

When Desire rose up and looked around 
him, all the crimson glory had vanished ; but for 
the bright moonlight, he would have been in 
darkness. 

He stood still, awakened to the future. Where 
7 


98 the fisherman of auge. 

should he go now ? He could not return to Le 
Callac. Home ! Was he in a humor to bear his 
father’s cutting jests with patience ? And yet the 
fisherman was often away ; he might be absent 
now. There was no place where D4sire could so 
completely hide from human fellowship, whether 
irritant or sympathizing, and it was his home. 
Yes, he would go to Auge. 

Desire had till now never lost a friend. He 
had seen mixed good and evil in human nature, 
but the ripe side of the peach had been always 
his. Marie was his first disillusion in a reality he 
had believed in as firmly as any article of religious 
faith ; and he found himself now utterly skeptical 
of any good, any truth, to be found in woman or 
man either. 

He shrank from looking on a human face. 

Since he had risen from the earth, he had been 
moving slowly toward the high-road. The white 
posts beside it, along which ran the telegraph- 
wires recently placed there, looked ghastly in the 
moonlight ; and as Desire approached them, a 
strain of apparently unearthly music sounded close 
beside him. He started and recoiled a few steps ; 
a strange thrill ran through his blood ; but as the 
music swelled again, and again died away, he 
smiled at himself. It was only the wind, rising at 
fitful intervals, which had struck these mournful 
notes from the wires as it swept across them. 

About thirty yards before him, the ground 


AT TOE CALVAIRE OF ST.-PIERRE. 


99 


rose steeply on the left-hand side of the way. On 
its summit was a large, square flight of stone steps, 
crowned by a tall Calvary — a well-known land- 
mark on his homeward road. 

The moonlight seemed concentrated on this 
spot, and as he got nearer, Desire saw a figure in 
the road just below, pausing apparently in con- 
templation of the Holy Image sculptured on the 
Cross. Not in devout contemplation, for the man 
had not removed his hat, or bent his knee, or 
given any of the other tokens of reverence usual 
in passing by such a symbol. 

Desir4 crossed himself, and, muttering that it 
was unlucky to meet a heretic, he looked up to 
the figure on the Cross, as if for protection from 
the evil presence. 

The face was so calm, so beautiful in the moon- 
light, that he stood there gazing, and as he stood 
his own sorrows seemed lightened, his heart felt 
less hard, less bitter against his fellow -men, 
brought thus face to face with that unspeakable 
Sorrow and Love. 

The man in the road had his back toward 
Desire ; he had not turned at his approach, al- 
though the young soldier was within a few yards 
of him, and though all was now so breathlessly 
still. 

Suddenly there swept by, louder than before, 
the same unearthly music. 

Shrieking, almost howling, with mortal fear, 


100 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


the man fled up the steps of the Calvary, and 
flung himself at the foot of the Cross, clasping it 
in his arms as if for protection. 

With an instinct he could not have accounted 
for. Desire sprang after him. 

Face to face, he saw that it was his father. 

The next instant he shrank horror-struck at 
the incoherent ravings he heard. 

O blessed Saviour, have mercy on me ! Son 
of Mary, pity ! I did not mean to cause her 
death. Hark ! hark ! she is calling me. O holy 
Virgin, I meant but to stupefy, not to kill ; the 
blow was heavier than I thought ! There ! — there 
again ! Oh — oh ! ” 

The wretched man strove, by pressing his head 
against the stem of the Cross, to shut out the 
thrilling sounds which rose louder and louder as 
the breeze swept by. 

Desire, dumb with horror, in the hope of qui- 
eting him, laid his hand gently on his father’s 
shoulder ; but the touch only increased Martin’s 
frenzy. 

Celine ! Celine ! ” he shrieked, “ let me go. 
I have confessed ! am I not here confessing ? 
Thou hast no right to follow me with thy pale 
face, forever threatening that our son shall know 
who caused thy death.” 

In the intensity of his horror, of his resolve to 
learn the very worst. Desire’s touch had become a 
powerful grasp on the old man’s shoulder, and at 


AT THE CALVAIRE OF ST.-PIERRE. IQl 

the instant the breeze swept by again, bearing with 
it the same mournful strain. 

Martin Leli^vre’s fear made him desperate. 
He turned, and strove to wrest himself from what 
he believed to be his wife’s grasp ; for an instant, 
as the moonlight fell on Desire’s face, the likeness 
to his mother increased the frenzied creature’s 
conviction, and he struggled like some wild ani- 
mal in the grasp of his foes. 

In vain. His son held him with the double 
strength of a powerful frame and a determined 
will, and finally Martin reeled back against the 
Cross, shuddering, panting, as if ague-smitten. 

As he looked full in Desire’s face he recog- 
nized him ; probably the physical consciousness 
that he was struggling with flesh and blood, and 
not with an avenging spirit, helped to clear Mar- 
tin’s faculties from the nightmare that had numbed 
them. 

His muscles relaxed, the rigid distention of 
his eyes lessened, and he drew a long, gasping 
breath either of exhaustion or from relief. 

Father and son seemed alike unwilling to break 
the awful silence that followed. The old man 
leaned against the Cross, still as the sculptured 
image above him, and his son also stood motion- 
less, while the broad moonlight shone down upon 
them. 

D6sir6 was literally unable to speak, so fearful 
was the conflict that raged within him ; and Mar- 


102 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


tin was trying to collect his thoughts, trying to 
remember how far he had revealed his secret. 

At length he rose up from his reclining atti- 
tude against the Cross, shook himself, as a man 
does after sleeping soundly, and moved forward 
to descend the steps. 

Then D6sire roused, and laid his hand once 
more on his father’s shoulder. The touch brought 
back the aguish shuddering. 

“ Stay ” — he could not utter the word father 
— “ I must tell you that I have heard enough 
to know that — that my mother died by your 
hands.” 

All Martin Leli^vre’s bullying spirit had fled. 
He was deadened, as if by paralysis or intoxica- 
tion. His eyes still fastened on his son, but they 
were expressionless of remorse or fear. 

The horror that had seized on Desire grew 
with each moment of silence ; and it doubled in 
its nature, for some of it was at himself, and the 
intense longing he felt to give the criminal up to 
justice. 

It seemed to him at last, as the awful silence 
continued, that he could no longer resist the im- 
pulse that bade him at once take his father a pris- 
oner to Caen. 

Did Martin read his purpose in his face ? On 
a sudden the dilated eyes, so rigid in their immo- 
bility, quivered, and then turned an imploring 
gaze, which the clasped hands and bended knees 


AT THE CALVAIRE OF ST.-PIERRE. 103 

helped to interpret before words came. Down, 
lower, still lower he crouched, till his head almost 
touched the earth. 

The action brought back filial feeling. The 
unhappy young man shuddered to see his father 
in so unworthy a position, prostrate before his 
own child. 

He stooped to raise the old man, and, throwing 
back his head as the inert weight strained on his 
muscles, once more the loving pity of the face 
above him helped Desire. 

He placed Martin as he had before stood, 
against the Cross ; but there was no longer the 
same erect attitude. The fisherman’s head drooped 
between his shoulders, his knees bent inward, his 
aspect was more that of a stuffed figure, whose 
unbalanced weight must after a while cause its 
own downfall, than that of a man with thews, 
and sinews, and self-sustaining power. Martin’s 
lips moved, had been moving for some seconds 
past, but no words came. 

“ Shall I help you home ? you can tell me the 
rest — what I ought to know — there.” 

Desii’e spoke calmly, not sternly, as if he were 
addressing a stranger to whom he felt bound to 
render some painful duty. 

A quick movement thrilled through Martin 
Leli^vre ; it might have been his son’s words that 
caused the blood to flow more freely. He raised 
his head, his body became erect, and he stretched 


104 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


Jiis outspread right hand toward Desire, as if to 
enchain attention to his words. 

Home, no ! What thou hast to know must 
be told thee here. There is something here that 
forces me to speak, afterward no human power 
could draw from my lips what only she ” — the 
trembling returned visibly — “ has made me tell. 
And she has broken faith, too ” — his voice grew 
eager. “ When she first got back her senses, and 
told me she was dying, I said — for it seemed to 
me then that I couldn’t bear to lose her — I would 
go to the maire and confess that I struck her.” 

“ Did you know who it was you struck ? ” 

The words came almost involuntarily, start- 
ling Desire more than the narrator, whose eager- 
ness they scarcely slackened. 

“Yes ; it was not dark — white, white moon- 
light, as it is now. I had gone down first to see 
my treasure, and because I knew that — that there 
was a chance of putting more to it, I went on 
along the shore. She must have watched me, and 
followed me, for I walked miles beyond Auge to 
where the terrible rocks begin — you know them.” 
He jerked his head in a westerly direction. “ I 
had found what I expected to find, and I had bent 
over him to see if his clothes were worth having, 
too, when I felt a grasp on my arm. I turned 
round. I was afraid, for I expected to see noth- 
ing human. I thought it was one of the polyps, 
and their clutch never loosens till they have 


AT THE CALYAIRE OF ST.-PIERRE. 105 


dragged their prey down into deep water, and I 
had laid down my knife beyond my reach. I 
turned, I tell thee, and it was thy mother, Celine. 
I was very angry with her for giving me such a 
fright, but she raised her other hand, and said I 
had murdered the sailor lying at our feet. I don’t 
know what I said. I was mad to hear her say 
that all my treasure was blood-stained, and would 
bring a curse. I had never said I had treasure, so 
I knew she must have followed me. I struck her. 
In a moment she lay before me as lifeless as the 
sailor ! ” 

Desire’s blood had seemed to stand still while 
he listened ; but now he drew back with abhor- 
rence in face and gesture. His father saw it, and 
his courage rose with despair. 

“ Thou thinkest I murdered her, Desire ; but 
remember, if she had not come spying upon me 
with false charges it would not have happened ; 
and remember, too, that if thou hadst left me in 
peace to-night and that other night not long ago, 
thou mightest have died without knowing this. 
That time thou foundest me in the river-bed 
brought it all back, and she has never left me 
since, till to-night I was on my way to obey her. 
But she has broken faith ; she said our son must 
never know it, and yet this is her doing. She 
only said ‘ Confess, atone ! — confess, atone ! ’ — 
and I was on my way to do both.” He began to 
walk rapidly up and down the platform, mutter- 


106 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


ing to himself, his son keeping close to him. Pres- 
ently he stopped. “ Yes, Desire, I said to my- 
self ‘ her spirit will not rest till I have done one 
good deed to wipe out the past ; ’ and then, as if 
by a miracle, I heard of the wrong intended to 
thee, and I resolved to right thee. I resolved that 
if Marie Triquet weds Auguste Leroux, she shall 
wed a poorer man than thou art ; and I said, 
‘ Mon Dieu ! what do I know ? So great an atone- 
ment made to her son whom she loved may quiet 
her as much as the confession, and she may rest 
without that.’ cannot make it — I will not, 
though she stands at my bedside all these nights, 
• ever since thou stolest upon me at. the rocks — 
looking so like her ; and she says ‘ Confess, atone ! ’ 
She threatens me with her fingers ! ” His face 
grew ghastly as he spoke, and he again stretched 
out both his hands to enforce attention. 

“ Last night, Desir6, I promised her I would 
do it. I am on my way to Ardaine ; before now 
thy wrong would have been atoned. As I came 
up to the Calvaire I only heard ‘Confess, con- 
fess ! ’ I thought this was fancy ; deeds must be 
better than words, and I hardened myself and 
tried to pass on to Ardaine, and then her voice 
shrieked out, as it had never done before, ‘ Con- 
fess ! confess ! confess ! ’ ” 

The aguish trembling overmastered him once 
more, and, if D4sire had not held him up, he must 
have fallen. 


AT TUE OALVAIRE OF ST.-PIERRE. 107 

The son’s senses were reeling with this com- 
bination of undreamed-of horror, but Martin’s 
present project seemed to demand his instant in- 
terference. 

“ You have mistaken my mother’s wishes en- 
tirely,” he said. “ To my mind, she bade you go 
to the priest and make the atonement he should 
counsel with your treasure. As to your molesting 
Auguste Leroux, that would be only adding crime 
to crime.” He stopped, hardly able to make his 
meaning clear ; presently he went on : ‘‘ If you 
do not promise me to renounce any attempt to in- 
jure him, I must at once take you before Monsieur 
le Maire.” 

He meant this only as a precautionary means 
to prevent mischief at Ardaine, but his father 
misunderstood him. 

“Thou art still my son. Desire, and I will 
spare thee the remorse of disobeying thy mother’s 
last wish — that the secret should be kept. Hush ! ” 
— for his son no longer held him, but stood clasp- 
ing his hands in earnest deprecation of the surmise 
just uttered. “ I will render it impossible to thee 
to betray me to justice ; thou couldst not be so 
ungrateful when I shall have made Maria again 
thine. I am thy father. I forbid thee to follow 
me ! ” At the last word he turned, and then 
darted down the steps on the side nearest to Ar- 
daine. 


108 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


CHAPTER XI. 

ON THE KOOP OF THE ABBAYE. 

The Calvaire stood at an angle where two 
roads, each starting from Caen, converged into 
the highway. About twenty yards down the left- 
hand path (Desire had come by that on the right, 
and still stood on that side of the Calvaire) was a 
narrow cross-road, with a high wall on each side, 
built of huge blocks of stone. 

This walled road, which led to the open coun- 
try, was a much nearer way to Ardaine than if 
you followed the downward path from the Cal- 
vaire into Caen, and thence mounted again through 
the Rue Xotre-Dame ; and yet the latter was the 
ordinary route, for so much of the cross-road as 
lay between the high walls was deeply shadowed 
by them, and so ill-drained as to be, except in the 
driest weather, a sort of morass ; even at the best 
it was rough and ridgy walking. 

But Desire knew, by instinct rather than from 
reflection — he gave himself no time for this — that 
his father would be found in the walled road, and 
that, if he would stop him, he had no time to lose. 

For a moment or two surprise held him mo- 
tionless, and by the time he reached the foot of 
the platform Martin Leli^vre had vanished. 

Desire ran on at his utmost speed till the in- 


ON THE ROOF OF THE ABBAYE. 109 

creased darkness on the other side showed him 
that he was approaching the walled road. As if 
to aid the fugitive, the hank of clouds behind 
which the sun had set had gradually overspread 
the sky, and just now a fresh gust of wind drove 
a mass of ragged, black vapor over the moon, to- 
tally obscuring her light. 

D4sire stopped and listened ; it was impossible 
to see any object in such darkness ; but, from the 
roughness of the ground, he felt sure no one 
could hasten over it noiselessly. 

Yes ; there was the faint sound of one run- 
ning fast in front of him, more ahead than he 
could have thought possible. 

It was a relief to fix his thoughts on the best 
means of intercepting his father’s pui-pose, so as 
not to remember all he had been listening to. 

He thought he could soon run down the fugi- 
tive ; but, in the darkness, supposing Martin dou- 
bled, it might be difiicult to capture him without 
a desperate struggle. 

Would it be better to trust to his own speed, 
return direct to Caen, and thence hasten to Ar- 
daine, and meet his father on his arrival there ? 

“ No,” he said. “ It must be nearly eleven 
o’clock. Leroux and all at the farm are sleeping 
long ago. My father might conceal himself among 
the buildings before I could arrive and give the 
alarm.” 

And Desire felt that he could not set the farm- 


110 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


servants on to track out his father’s hiding-place. 
It was plain that the only course left for him was 
to pursue and overtake the fugitive before he 
reached Ardaine. 

He had recommenced his pursuit while he de- 
cided ; for the sounds in front had grown less dis- 
tinct. Suddenly the darkness lightened, the air 
came freer, and Desir4 knew that he had reached 
the end of the wall-boundary. Henceforth the 
pursuit lay between wide-stretching fields, with 
hedges on either side. 

On he sped ; the sounds in front of him grew 
more and more distinct as the distance lessened. 
Suddenly they ceased. Desire redoubled his speed. 
He could hear the struggling, gasping breath, as 
of one almost overcome, and he sprang forward. 

There came a scramble, so close beside him 
that he seemed to feel the hedge move, and then 
a fall into the field on the other side. 

He remembered that there was a long, narrow 
path somewhere hereabouts, which struck diag- 
onally across the intervening fields and led straight 
to Ardaine. 

Without hesitating he forced his way through 
the hedge, and then listened. There was no light 
to show him how to strike the path. 

He heard no one running before him ; but 
there was grass beneath his feet. It was possible 
the sound might be deadened. 

Desire looked toward the moon, or rather to 


ON THE ROOF OF THE ABBAYE. m 

where she had been before the great, black, roll- 
ing mass had swallowed up her light. There was 
a grayer hue on one side of it than on the other. 
The next breeze that sprang up would drift the 
vapor onward, and then he should be able to see 
the way his father was taking. He could not feel 
or see any path ; but he believed that he must be 
running on toward Ardaine. 

Sooner than he hoped, the clouds passed on ; 
the moon shone out again, almost brighter than 
before. Where was the path ? Not in front of 
him. There it lay to the right. The direction 
he was following would have brought him out 
somewhere on the Bayeux road, between La Ma- 
ladrerie and Caen, far away from Ardaine. 

In a moment he had regained the foot-path, 
and he looked forward. The ruined ahbaye stood 
out dark and massive in the wide landscape, sur- 
rounded, except where the huge entrance-gates 
came, by high walls built of the stone of the 
country, decaying slowly and imperceptibly be- 
neath the moonlight. 

Desire strained his . eyes in vain ; there was 
nothing moving between him and the ahbaye. 

His father’s manoeuvre flashed upon him. He 
had forced his way through the hedge, but had 
gone no farther ; and, while his son had been los- 
ing himself in the darkness, Martin had returned 
to the road, and had been making sure progress 
toward the farm. 


112 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


Muttering against his own folly, Desire at 
once directed his course toward the road in the 
hope of being, yet in time. 

It was as he had feared. 

Martin Lelievre had scrambled over the hedge, 
and had dropped under it for the rest he so great- 
ly needed ; and, when Desire darted off to find 
the path across the fields, he almost brushed by 
his father, who lay prostrate on the grass, holding 
in his panting breath for fear of discovery. 

He had been a better runner in his day than 
Desire, and was still, except in sustaining power, 
fully his match. His spirits rose with the success 
of his stratagem. He should accomplish his pur- 
pose, and make his son happy and eternally grate- 
ful to himself. Then, surely, Celine would rest. 
He regained the road, his mind growing wilder 
and more ungoverned as he hurried on. 

He was within a few yards of the avenue lead- 
ing to the dbhaye gates. In Martin’s present haste 
it seemed to him that these gates would be easier 
to scale than the walls. He was dashing down 
the avenue when he heard steps following in pur- 
suit along the road he had just left. 

In an instant he had hidden himself behind 
one of the large tree-trunks. 

His pursuer stopped, evidently at fault ; he 
came nearly up to the tree behind which the fish- 
erman stood, and then retraced his steps to the 
road. 


ON THE ROOF OF THE ABBAYE. 


113 


Again a mass of whirling, black vapor over- 
spread the moon. Martin stooped and gently 
pulled off his shoes; glided noiselessly along within 
the shelter of the tree-trunks till he reached the 
gates, without attracting the pursuer’s attention. 

He stood still, looking at them. They were 
stout and strong, hut not very high. A much 
bulkier man than Martin would have found space 
enough to make his way between them and the 
arched stonework above. 

‘‘There is no time for the ahhaye^'^ he mur- 
mured ; “ I must see to Leroux first ; and, after 
all, it is the surest way.” 

On the other side of the gateway was a large 
court-yard ; in this, on the left, stood the noble 
ahhaye^ now a mere shell, but in perfect external 
preservation, even to the roof and the richly- 
carved tracery of the window^. 

It had long been deserted as a church, and was 
filled with carts, hay, straw, and winter fodder of 
all kinds ; on the right were barns, and ’close un- 
der the wall, that extended for some distance to 
the left of the gates, facing the abhaye, was a 
range of buildings. These were rooms intended 
for the occupation of the farmer who rented the 
land when the proprietor himself lived in the farm- 
house. But the present owner was an absentee, 
and Auguste Leroux was fitting up a charming 
home for Marie in the old house which stood on 
the opposite side of the court-yard. 

8 


114 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


Till his marriage, Monsieur Leroux slept in one 
of the rooms beside the gate. It was only one 
story high, a large, lofty chamber, which served 
for eating and sleeping. The floor was tiled, the 
walls of bare stone, and on the great, open fire- 
place rested a pair of huge dogs, idle at this time 
of the year. In one corner of the bare, gaunt 
place stood a tall, white-faced clock ; in another, 
a walnut-wood armoire y in front of the fireplace 
were a small, round table, and a chair ; and in the 
farthest corner from the door and window, both 
close together, and both opening directly from 
the court-yard, was a mahogany French bed, its 
scarlet curtains screening the sight, but not dead- 
ening the sounds, of the heavy sleeper within. 

The tall clock with the white face always 
ticked loudly ; but for the last five minutes it had 
seemed noisier than ever. It struck eleven ; and 
as the last, clear, ringing stroke fell on the bell, 
Auguste Leroux started, broad awake. 

Was it only the clock that had roused him? 
Who can say what caused the sudden awakening ? 

Close beside him, bending down so that he 
could not see his face, a man was holding a light- 
ed match to his bedclothes, while the moonlight 
streaming in through the open window showed 
how he had obtained entrance. 

Leroux sprang upon the intruder and grappled 
with him ; but in an instant a knife flashed before 
his eyes. He shouted aloud for help, and strug- 


ON THE ROOF OF THE ABBAYE. 


115 


gled desperately with his assailant ; hut he could 
not extinguish the flame, now spreading fast from 
the bedclothes to the paillasse beneath. Leroux 
was powerfully made, but he was a heavy, lum- 
bering man, and was, besides, taken by surprise. 
His assailant was evidently trying to force him 
back on the burning bed. 

There was a sudden darkening of the window, 
8. cry of “ Au secours / ” Leroux felt his adver- 
sary’s grasp loosen as he turned round to face the 
new-comer. The next instant he was released, 
and the incendiary had darted through the win- 
dow. 

The person who had last entered was following 
the intruder, but Leroux called out loudly for help 
in extinguishing the flames. The heavy cloth bed- 
curtains only smouldered as yet, but the wood of 
the bedstead was beginning to take Are. There 
was not any water in the room, but the horse- 
trough stood just outside the window, and there 
was a duck-pond at the other end of the court- 
yard. 

By the time they had got pails from the near- 
est barn, and had partially extinguished the 
flames, the sleepy farm servants began to arrive, 
full of wonder and ejaculations of horror at what 
had occurred. 

“Yes, you lazy vauriens^ but for that good 
friend’s help I might have been murdered ; and if 
the walls had not been stone,” Leroux added, look- 


116 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


ing round the great, bare room, as he hastily scram- 
bled on some clothing, ‘‘ the farm and the abhaye 
would have perished.” 

“ Will monsieur pardon ? ” said one of the ser- 
vants ; “ hut it is partly monsieur’s own fault ; 
you made me take Bruno to Varentin yesterday, 
because you said his noise disturbed you when the 
moon was full. His tongue would have waked us. 
Who has done this mischief, monsieur, and where 
is he?” 

One of the elder men said this, but Leroux did 
not heed him. He had turned to thank his deliv- 
erer, and, by the light which some of the servants 
had by this time brought, he recognized D6sire 
Lelievre. 

A confused murmur of voices, asking what 
was to be done, was seemingly unheard by the two 
rivals brought so strangely face to face. If De- 
sire heard, he was purposely deaf. All he hoped 
for now was his father’s escape ; for he felt con- 
vinced that his own sudden appearance would in- 
sure Martin’s departure from the abhaye. 

Leroux was strangely excited ; he waved his 
hands impatiently to the men. 

‘‘Go, go now, all of you! You have done 
what is necessary 1 ” and almost pushing the last 
man out, he shut the door upon him. 

Then he turned to Desire. 

“ How you came, as if by a miracle, I cannot 
guess ; but you must be a true soldier,” he said. 


ON THE ROOF OF THE ABBAYE. 


117 


in an agitated voice, “to listen only to the call of 
honor, even to save the life of one who has robbed 
you of your promised wife. But, Desire Leli^vre, 
till two days ago I did not know that your mar- 
riage with Marie Triquet had been decided. I was 
told you admired her ; but that was all. I was 
angry when I heard the truth, for I think a girl 
even should never break her word ; but I said 
nothing. I thought perhaps Marie’s mother knew 
you were not worthy of her daughter, and so had 
discarded you. Now I know differently, and I 
tell you that I cannot live happily with Marie, 
feeling that I have stolen her from the man who 
saved my life. Take her, my friend, take her 
back again, and my debt will be paid ! ” 

It was wonderful to see how the enthusiastic 
impulses of his gratitude carried the usually pom- 
pous, purse-proud Leroux out of himself. Per- 
haps a little of his accustomed manner clung to 
him, for he seemed rather to be bestowing Marie 
on Leli^vre than to be yielding her ; but Desire 
did not heed this. 

He shook his head. For a moment he stood 
thinking, uncertain, not of what he should say, 
but how to bring The words out with as little of- 
fense as possible to the young farmer. 

“ I am glad I have been of service to you, Le- 
roux, but I want no reward.- I shall not soon for- 
get your generous offer, and I am glad you have 
made it ; it shows me she will have a better bus- 


118 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


band than I thought. But even if she were will- 
ing, I could not marry her now ; that is all past 
and gone for me.” 

He had restrained himself with great effort 
during this speech. Leroux’s generosity had fired 
his. It seemed unmanly to say that he thought a 
woman who could deceive as Marie had, never 
could fill his heart again ; it might injure her with 
her future husband. 

Leroux grasped his hand. 

“ Leli^vre,” he began ; but there came a clam- 
orous outcry for “ Le mattre / ” “ JOe patron ! ” 
“ Monsieur Leroux ! ” ‘‘^Au secours ! au secours ! ” 
from the men, who still lingered in the yard. 

Desire reached them first. A nameless fear 
was spurring at his heart as if to force it out of 
his body. 

As he reached the loud-talking, gesticulating 
group, clustered at the foot of a tall ladder which 
nearly touched the roof of the ahbaye, there was 
a cry from among them, a sudden scattering, and 
the tall ladder was pushed violently forward 
against the stone wall facing the side of the ah~ 
hayCy and came crashing to the ground. 

One of the men ran up to it,%nd then he point- 
ed upward. “Ze scklerat ! The ladder is bro- 
ken ! ” he said to Desir6, ‘‘and he will set fire to 
the ahbaye before we can reach him.” 

“ He ! ” Desire’s eyes had been strained on to 
the roof of the building ; but there was no moon- 


ON THE ROOF OF THE ABBAYE. 


119 


light now, and he could not distinguish as well as 
the men, who had been watching in the darkness. 

Just then Leroux touched him. 

“ The fellow is there,” he said — he pointed to 
the roof. “ He pushed the ladder down just now. 
lie is hiding behind the little staircase-tower. 
You see those towers at the four corners ; they 
each contain a staircase winding up to a gallery 
which runs along inside the roof from end to end, 
on a level with the upper windows. If any one 
had the boldness to climb on to the roof from one 
of those windows, this madman might be secured 
till we have spliced the ladder ; if not, he will en- 
ter by one of them, and fire the stores, and then 
— mon Dieu ! — I am a ruined man. See ! see ! 
there he goes ! ” 

The farmer spoke almost in a shriek ; a dark 
object was plainly crawling along the edge of the 
sloping roof, only saved from falling by a low, 
pierced parapet. 

Leroux rushed to the foot of the turret, and 
unlocked the little door leading to the staircase. 

A hundred francs to the man who goes up 
first ! ” he said vehemently. 

There was no response. The farm-laborers 
clustered sulkily together ; the reward seemed to 
them quite disproportioned to the risk proposed. 
The staircases were said to be broken and dan- 
gerous ; and then, a hand-to-hand struggle with 
a desperate man on a roof more than a hundred 


120 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


feet from the ground ! Bah ! it was too great a 
danger. 

Leroux looked despairingly at Desire. 

‘‘I would venture myself,” he said. ‘‘It is 
not want of pluck that keeps me hack ; but I am 
heavily built, and from a child I have the vertigo 
if I mount a height. If I go I shall lose life as 
well as fortune.” 

Desire’s eyes had been strained on the dark, 
moving form. 

“I cannot go,” he said, “you must not ask 
me — ” 

Leroux was strangely surprised. Could this 
man, whom he had seen so daring a short while 
ago, be a coward after all? But there was the 
dark figure making slow but sure progress. It 
had paused, and apparently had felt over the edge 
of the parapet for the projecting moulding which 
would indicate the head of one of the windows. 

Leroux raised his voice so as to silence the 
clamorous cries and threats which the men again 
shouted upward. 

“ Five hundred francs to the man who climbs 
into the gallery and holds the thief there as he en- 
ters ! You’ll not catch him on the roof now ; he 
is feeling for the window ; he will get in there ! — 
he means to fire the building.” 

“And if I do catch him on the roof will you 
make it six hundred ? ” said a tall, gypsy-looking 
youth, who had come into the yard after the rest. 


ON THE ROOF OF THE ABBAYE. 


121 


“ Yes ! But, in heaven’s name, make haste ; he 
has found the window ! ” 

Leroux’s words were accompanied by a laugh 
that came from the roof of the ahhaye, a mocking 
laugh, that sounded wild and unearthly to the rest, 
but which Desire knew too well. 

Some of the men below had by this time lit 
torches, which threw a smoky light upward. The 
rest were helping their master to splice the ladder ; 
but it was so badly fractured that this was not 
easy. D4sire Lelievre alone stood statue-like, his 
eyes fascinated as if by a spell on the moving fig- 
ure, which now, having at last made sure of the 
window-moulding, sat astride the parapet, stretch- 
ing one hand downward to grasp the carved ti;acery. 
Martin’s movements had been much more rapid 
since Leroux had last spoken. Desire wondered 
that the men (for several, tempted by the increased 
reward, had followed the gypsy) did not appear at 
the window. He did not know how difficult the 
broken, winding staircase was to climb. 

Ah ! the outstretched hand has found the 
tracery now ; in another instant the whole body 
will be over the parapet. 

Desir6 can no longer restrain himself ; hitherto 
his terror has been lest his father should be recog- 
nized, but now he calls out loudly : 

“ Father ! father ! stay, I will bring the lad- 
der ; no one shall harm thee ! ” 

There is no answer ; the body swings over the 


122 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


parapet, while both hands cling to the tracery ; 
then they slide quickly to the central mullion, the 
whole weight of the body dragging from them. 

Desire stands in speechless horror ; he sees the 
clinging figure twice strive to force its way through 
one of the unglazed lights, and twice swing out in 
rebound from the violent effort ; the aperture is 
too small. The figure shakes now as if agitated, 
and a loud cry from within tells that the men have 
reached the window. 

“ Stay ! ” Desire shouts from below — ‘‘ hold off! 
don’t touch him 1 he is mad ! I will climb the lad- 
der and hold him fast ; he will yield to me I ” He 
adds this, hoping to restrain and calm his father. 

He looks round for the ladder. No one heeds 
his words : all are too busy in securing their work. 
They have fastened the ladder at last by means of 
a shorter one laid across the fracture, and are rais- 
ing it from the ground. . . . 

When Desire turned his eyes for the first time 
from their fixed gaze on the dark figure hanging 
in mid-air, it made one more desperate effort to 
enter by the window ; and then, as if struck by 
sudden paralysis, lost its hold and fell, with a dull, 
sickening sound, on the stones below. 


WHAT BECAME OF DESIRl^. 


123 


CHAPTER XII. 

WHAT BECAME OF DESIEE. 

Wheit D4sire recovered consciousness he did 
not know where he was. 

He lay on a bed something like his own ; but 
he was not in his father’s house. Even before 
memory came back, he recognized this with a feel- 
ing of relief. Just then the door opened, and he 
saw Mimi. 

She came up to the bedside, and asked him 
quietly how he was ; then she gave him the soup 
she had brought in, as if it were the most natural 
thing possible for him to be lying there. 

Desire lay still ; he felt too weak to talk ; 
presently Mimi said : 

“Jacques will be so glad you are better. I 
will fetch him.” 

She went away; and when she had told Jacques 
he must be very quiet and careful, she left him 
alone with Desire. 

Jacques fidgeted ; he was not used to a sick- 
room, and he heartily wished Mimi had staid and 
watched over his behavior ; besides, he was afraid 
of Desire’s questions. 

“ Ma foi / ” he said at last, “ I never thought 
to see thee reasonable again, mon gar^on. And 
the farmer there, Leroux — he will be as glad as 
glad can be ! ” 


124 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


Desire smiled. 

“ I have had a fever, then ?” he asked, faintly. 

“ A fever ! I should say thou hast had three 
fevers at once, if that is possible. Monsieur Le- 
roux, he says it was the burning thou hast received 
in saving his life. He says he shall never forget 
his fright when he saw thee fall in a heap in the 
court-yard, and then — for he is a good fellow at 
bottom, Leroux — ^he was raising thee in his arms to 
lay thee in his own chamber — not on his bed, that 
was too wet from the water that had been thrown 
on it.; and while he waited, giving orders for 
some fresh bed to be made there, all of a sudden 
he felt a struggle, and, pouf! there thou wast, 
flying for thy life through the gates which had 
been opened to let in some of the men who slept 
outside. Ah, Desire ! it was well for thee that 
night that I was watching. I hear some one come 
flying along the sands as if Satan was on his heels, 
and suddenly thou stumblest over a rock, and I 
see thee, as I think, dead on the sand.” 

Mimi opened the door gently. 

“Thou talkest too much, Jacques,” she said, 
smiling. 

“ Mafoi ! ” — Jacques plunged his great, rough 
hand into his hair — “then, Mimi, stay here and 
mount guard. I am only telling him how his ill- 
ness began. I have not said a word of his cries, 
and his struggles, and his wild talk, and of all thy 
skillful nursing. 3Ia foi, mon gar^on ! I could 


WHAT BECAME OF D^SIRK 


125 


not have brought thee round without Mimi. I 
will say that for her, though ” — he looked slyly at 
her — “ she does lead me such a dog’s life about 
talking above my breath. Why, mafoiy I have 
had to whisper till my throat aches ! ” 

Mimi’s face had grown crimson ; but Desire 
wondered, as he looked gratefully at her, why he 
had never thought her pretty before. 

He put out his wasted hand. 

“I don’t know how to thank you for your 
goodness,” he said, and tears came to his eyes as 
be pressed the girl’s hand. “ And thou, too, my 
friend — how much anxiety I have caused thee — ” 
“Thou must not talk,” said Jacques Fay el, de- 
lighted to stop his friend’s thanks ; “ to-morrow I 
will have thee out on the sands ; next day — who 
knows ? — out at sea, fishing perhaps ; now go to 
sleep, man gars — no, thou shalt not speak even to 
Mimi ! ” 

For Mimi was weeping, and Jacques, utterly 
mystified at such inconsistent behavior, took her 
hand, and led her into the outer room. 

“ Sapristi ! ” he said roughl}^, when he had shut 
the door behind them, “ if I had found thee cry- 
ing when this poor fellow lay there raving about 
murders and the Calvaire, I would not have won- 
dered ; but to cry now, just when he is so much 
better that I could turn head over heels with joy, 
is the behavior of a child, Mimi ! Bah ! Bah ! 
dry thy tears then ! ” 


126 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


Captain de Gragnac was again sitting in the 
window overlooking the court-yard of the old 
Convent de I’Oratoire, and, no longer standing 
before him, but seated in a chair close by, with 
thin, pale face and sunken eyes, was Desire Le- 
lievre. 

It was the first time he had felt able to make 
the journey to Caen, and he was almost overpow- 
ered by fatigue. 

There had been much during the last two days 
to try his newly-found strength. He could not be 
sure whether Jacques Fay el suspected the identity 
of his father with the madman who had met with 
such a fearful fate at the Abbaye d’Ardaine ; but 
it was plain that no one else did ; it was supposed 
in Auge that Martin had gone on one of his long, 
solitary expeditions among the dangerous rocks 
of Calvados, and had perished there, far beyond 
human help. 

The body of the madman had been crushed by 
the fall out of all human likeness ; and as death 
had supervened while in the act of crime, the re- 
mains had been hastily buried, without any relig- 
ious rites. 

From his father’s confession, it was clear to 
Desir4 that he had been one of the unknown wreck- 
ers among the fishermen, and he felt almost sure 
that the burden which Martin had borne into the 
cottage, the last night he had himself passed there, 
was this ill-gotten treasure. 


WHAT BECAME OF DESIRE. 127 

Yesterday Desire had visited the cottage. He 
shuddered as he stepped over the threshold. 

In the inner room, hidden away among the 
straw stuffing of his father’s paillasse, he found 
money, watches, and valuable jewelry, and, among 
other articles, a massive altar service, evidently 
taken from the shipwrecked. Desii’e trembled at 
the thought of how all this had been come by ; 
but he kept the fisherman’s secret. 

The whole of the treasure was religiously con- 
signed to the cur^ of St.-Julier to be spent in mass- 
es for the souls of his unhappy parents, one of 
whom. Desire simply said, had been a grievous 
sinner. 

And then it seemed to the young soldier that 
he must put the sea between himself and Auge. 
The remembrance of that terrible night was still 
too vivid ; only time and absence could soften its 
horror. And he resolved to consult his captain 
about his future life. 

From Monsieur de Gragnac he heard that the 
Seventy-fifth was ordered to Algeria, and the cap- 
tain at once proposed that, until he should be able 
to take his place in the ranks, he should act as his 
servant, and so get the benefit of thorough change 
of scene. 

‘‘ And so, my poor fellow,” he said kindly, ‘‘ you 
think you will be strong enough to travel at the 
end of the week. .Bon / I hear this Algerian cli- 
mate works wonders with invalids.” And Mon- 


128 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


sieur de Gragnac, who had heard the end of De- 
sire’s courtship, could not resist the opportunity 
of illustrating his favorite theory. 

“Liking, my poor Desire, is permitted, is, in 
fadt, desirable ; hut love, in what is to be an in- 
dissoluble tie, merely clouds and blinds the judg- 
ment with its passionate fumes. When next you 
ithink of marrying some girl who has filled your 
heart and your head to the exclusion of everything, 
you will remember this misadventure and my coun- 
sel, and you will then decide to accept all the love 
that comes in your way — but you will also tell 
yourself that a French soldier should have noth- 
ing to do with so serious an institution as marriage 
until he is at least forty-five.” 

“ I thank you from my heart for all your good- 
ness to me, monsieur ; but I can never think either 
of love or of marriage henceforward. I am not a 
man to be deceived twice, and I have not so bad 
an opinion of the girl I loved as I could nevor love 
again, as to suppose her worse than other women 
are. Their natures are weaker than ours, and their 
feelings also, I suppose.” And yet while he spoke 
he thought of Mimi Fayel, and felt that there 
might be high, unselfish natures in women. 

“Remember this well, D4sire, and you will 
have learned the secret of dealing with women. 
They have no power of endurance ; they give 
like a cane.” 

“Yes, monsieur, I think so. Marie will be 


WHAT BECAME OF D]6SIR6. 


129 


happy with Leroux.” He spoke with an effort, 
for the farmer’s name brought back bis father’s 
awful confession more vividly than ever. “ I hear 
they are to be man-ied at the Saint-Michel. I wish 
them happiness. For me, monsieur, my mistress 
is henceforth the French army, and the emperor 
is my father. I have no home but under the 
eagle’s wings.” 

He bade farewell to the captain, and found 
J acques waiting for him outside the great gates 
of the quaint old court-yard. The vine-leaves 
were crimsoning fast, and the fruit hung in purple 
clusters ; yellow festoons of a creeping plant that 
garlanded the lower windows had grown almost 
too wildly luxuriant. 

“ Eh Men, mon gars ! ” said Jacques, “ it is 
well I brought the charrette close up to the gates 
— ^thou art as white as a sand-eel.” 

The young fisherman tried to cheer his friend 
on the way home ; but Desire was thinking too 
deeply to rouse for more than a minute or so. 

They were very near home when Jacques 
stopped the horse. 

“Canst thou walk this little bit, my friend? 
It will save thee some rough jolts.” 

Desire jumped down briskly. He was tired 
of the monotonous jolting of the rough vehicle, 
and he was glad to be alone. 

Mimi was sitting in her usual place at the open 
door. He had meant to walk on to the mouth of 
9 


130 


THE FISHERMAN OF AUGE. 


the river ; but, seeing her, he stopped, and then 
went toward her. Mimi saw him coming. She 
had managed to avoid finding herself alone with 
Desire ; but now she could not help it. She could 
not run away without seeming rude. But she felt 
angrily that she was foolish enough to be growing 
red and uncomfortable. 

“ And what f or ? ” she said, indignantly. “ F or 
a man who cares no more for me than he does for 
his own musket. Not so much, perhaps.” 

“Well, Monsieur Desir4” — she forced herself 
to look him in the face — “ here you are, tired and 
hungry. I am sure of it. Allons, the soup-pot is 
au chaud, and I suppose Jacques will be in direct- 
ly.” Here a look she was not used to in Desire’s 
eyes made her falter. 

“ I am not hungry, Mimi, and I want to speak 
to you. I have never yet thanked you as I want 
to thank you for your goodness to me, and now I 
don't know how to do it.” He stopped and looked 
at her. Instinctively, almost unconsciously, the 
slender brown hands had stolen up to her face, and 
they hid it now from Desire. “ Mimi,” he said, 
and his voice trembled, “ I am going away. I am 
still ill. I may — who knows? — die in Algeria. 
Will you wear this while I am away, Mimi, to 
put you in mind of the poor fellow you were so 
good to?” He had taken a small medal from 
round his neck, and he held it toward her ; but 
Mimi dared not look at him. “ Are you angry 
with me ? ” he said, sorrowfully. 


WHAT BECAME OF D^SIRfi. 


131 


Angry ! — oh, Desir4 ! ” She looked up at 
him, and he thought he had never seen such beau- 
tiful eyes as Mimi Fayel’s. 

‘‘ Then we are friends.” And he put the little 
chain that held the medal round her neck, and 
kissed her on both cheeks in brotherly fashion. 
But the kisses seemed to awaken fresh ideas. 

“ It was my mother’s,” he said. “ She always 
loved you, Mimi. She had it blessed for me when 
I was little, and I promised her not to part from 
it lightly. And now, Mimi, will you not give me 
a token ? Something to tell me always I have a 
true friend left in Auge.” 

“ I have only this,” she said. She drew a small 
silver cross from her dress. “ I have another, but 
I love this best. Will you wear it for me, De- 
sir6 ? ” 

It seemed to both of them most inopportune 
that Jacques should choose this moment for re- 
turning ; and he was in such a hurry, too, for his 
supper that Mimi could not even stop for D4sir6’s 
thanks. But he paid them with interest on the 
morning of his departure. 

“Adieu, Mimi,” he whispered, while Jacques 
bustled about with a present of fish he was taking 
in to Monsieur de Gragnac. “If I do not take 
service again I may return when I choose ; and I 
do not think I shall take service unless there is 
war.” 


THE END. 





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